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THE HEART 



OF 



Merrie England. 



BY THE 

Rev. JAMES S. STONE, D. D. 



"This dear English land! 
This happy England, loud with brooks and birds, 
Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees 
And bloomed from hill to dell 1" 






PHILADELPHIA: 
PORTER & COATES. 



\ 



i 



Copyright, 1887, 
BY PORTER & COATES. 



THE LIBRARY 
|OF CONGRESS 

WASHINGTON 



Jo jil 



WHOSE COMPANIONSHIP OF SYMPATHY AND AFFECTION 
HAS MADE LIFE MORE THAN HAPPY. 



PREFACE 



In the following pages are brought together sketches 
and reminiscences of the old land which can scarcely 
fail to interest those who love its history, its antiquities 
and its rural life. 

The book is intended rather as a suggestion of than 
as a guide to England. The writer has sought to foster 
tender memories and to strengthen loving ties. He has 
wandered from places well known to neighborhoods re- 
mote and secluded — from the cathedral of Canterbury to 
the cromlechs of Chipping Norton. The villages de- 
scribed are not richer in interest than other villages : they 
only illustrate how much pleasure the stranger from afar 
may find in the country districts of England. 

The book will serve, if for no other purpose, to while 
away an idle hour. Nevertheless, it has a value beyond 
that of amusement. Every line is written in truth — not 
merely intentional, but actual, truth. The places spoken 
of are familiar to the author. The greatest care has been 
taken to attain accuracy, and every temptation to exag- 
gerate in any sense has been studiously avoided. It is 



4 PREFACE. 

well to state this, as the ground gone over in this vol- 
ume is almost entirely new. With the exception of 
London, Oxford, Stratford and Canterbury, no other 
writer has dealt with the subject-matter of the book — 
most certainly, not in the way the reader will find it 
dealt with here. 

A few historical items in the second and third chap- 
ters were gathered from a parish magazine published 
some years since at Shipston. The fourth chapter, it is 
hoped, will be acceptable from the world-wide interest in 
the subject, and the fourteenth illustrates the customs 
and the superstitions which are not yet extinct in the re- 
gions touched upon in the volume. They who are fa- 
miliar with English folk-lore and country-life will detect 
in almost every sentence of the " Merry Legend " some 
allusion to old-time manners and ideas. The outline of 
the story is true, the life suggested by it such as still ex- 
ists ; and if the workmanship of the writer please not, 
let its purpose be considered — its endeavor to weave 
into the ground-work sayings and practices, homely pic- 
tures and rude scenes, which shall illustrate the days of 
yore and the country far away. In no part of the book 
is a character given that is not sketched from life — 
sometimes so faintly disguised that not a few into whose 
hands this volume may come will easily recognize the 
author's model and purpose. 

A residence of fourteen years on the western side of 



PREFACE 5 

the Atlantic and a readiness to appreciate and enter into 
the American life have in a measure, no doubt, unfitted 
the writer to speak of England from a purely English 
standpoint. He has done his best to show that love for 
his native land which none know better how to honor 
than the American people. They know full well that he 
who readily casts off old ties will as readily sever him- 
self from the new. But without becoming more and 
more imbued with its spirit no one can live in a land 
which one has learned to love. It must give its influence 
to his thought. He is as the man who in the home of 
his bride looks back to the home of his mother : perfect 
loyalty to both is consonant with perfect love for both. 
But he is not, and cannot be, the same in the one as in 
the other. He has left the mother for ever, not with 
regret — far from that — but to fulfil the destiny and the 
duty ordained for him by God. They, therefore, in the 
old land who may chance to read these pages must not 
expect too much. The son going home is not as the son 
who has never left home. 

Perhaps than at this time the two nations were never 
closer knit together. Old feelings have died out, and 
both peoples are content to let bygones be bygones. 
May they learn to love each other more and more as 
the ages roll on 1 

Philadelphia, June 21, 1887. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 

PAGE 

Introductory * 9 



CHAPTER II. 
The Village on the Stour 2 5 

CHAPTER III. 
The Region Roundabout 5 2 

CHAPTER IV. 
Love in ye Olden Time • 82 

CHAPTER V. 
At Oxford n 3 

CHAPTER VI. 
An Evening Walk l2 7 

CHAPTER VII. 
A Town in the Chilterns * 54 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Thame *78 

1 



8 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IX. 

PAGE 

The Pilgrimage to Canterbury 216 

CHAPTER X. 
In the Cathedral 237 



CHAPTER XI. 
At Stratford-on-Avon 255 



CHAPTER XII. 
To Edgehill 281 

CHAPTER XIII. 
Over the Country 301 

CHAPTER XIV. 
A Merry Legend 329 

CHAPTER XV. 
Last Glimpses 382 



The Heart of Merrie England. 



CHAPTER I. 

Inmftuctorj). 

" This little world, 
This precious stone set in the silver sea!" 

There are two countries which we as Christians and 
men of Anglo-Saxon race must ever think of with affec- 
tion — viz., Palestine, the birthplace of our Christianity, 
and England, the cradle of our civilization and our 
Church. Both of these lands have, apart from these 
considerations, had an important share in the world's 
history ; both lie on the western border of their respec- 
tive continents, and both are small in extent and irregu- 
lar in physical formation ; furthermore, both were peo- 
pled by a race foreign to the soil : the Israelites came 
from beyond the Euphrates, and the English from be- 
yond the German Ocean. These races, though belong- 
ing to distinct families, had in common a religious spirit, 
a love of freedom, commercial rather than warlike in- 
stincts, an undying affection for home and an exalted 
ideal of womanhood. We admire alike the heroes of 
both peoples — men such as Barak and Gideon, who 



IO THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

fought and won on the plain of Esdraelon ; men such 
as Harold Godwin, who fought and lost on the field of 
Senlac. Both have had their kings and prophets and 
poets of great excellence, and with equal pleasure the 
mind recalls the names of David the shepherd-king 
and Alfred the fugitive prince; Moses the lawgiver 
and Anselm the saint; the rapturous Isaiah and the 
holy Herbert. Nor do we remember save with the same 
delight the snow-crowned Lebanon, and the steep, rug- 
ged Cumbrians ; the blue waters of Tiberias, and the 
quiet beauty of Windermere; the Jordan rushing 
through a ravine deserted, and the Thames meander- 
ing through vales and plains of rich fertility ; the city 
crowned with the cross of a grand cathedral, and the 
city crowned with the pinnacles of a glorious temple ; 
the shore washed with the murmuring waves of a sunny 
Mediterranean, and the coast where wildly break the bil- 
lows of an untamed Atlantic. Some associations would 
urge us to compare England and Greece, and others, 
again, England and Italy ; but the most precious inherit- 
ance of religion, which made both Canaan and Britain 
holy, God-fearing lands, suggests the linking together of 
the land of roses and the land which floweth with milk 
and honey. 

England in the olden time — say about the age in 
which Augustine and his monks sang the Alleluia of 
the gospel and uplifted the cross of Christ before the 
gates of a heathen Canterbury — was a very different 
country from the England of the nineteenth century. 
Thirteen hundred years have wrought changes vast and 
almost inconceivable. Then the British Isles lay on, if 
not outside, the confines of civilization. Beyond them 



INTR OD UCTOR Y. 1 1 

was nothing but the unexplored Atlantic — the ocean 
which skirted the empty and illimitable space. A bold 
voyager was he who had seen the western coast of Ire- 
land — a still bolder one who had tempted the gods by 
venturing into the waters beyond the horizon and had 
ridden in his frail craft upon the green-crested billows 
of the blue-black sea. No keel then ploughed the Mer- 
sey; rarely indeed did a vessel enter the Tyne, the 
Humber or the Thames. The country still lay in its 
primitive wildness. Dark and impenetrable forests 
spread over vast tracts of land ; deep fens and sluggish 
marshes covered miles of plain. The climate was wet, 
dreary and inhospitable. The sparse population, whether 
British or English, was fierce and cruel. Communication 
was difficult and mostly by water, while the few towns 
and villages which existed were rude and rough. To 
compare England then and now is something like com- 
paring a storm-wrought sky in March with the star- 
strewn heavens of July. The wilderness has been con- 
verted into a garden ; cities have arisen where once the 
wild boar had his lair and the bittern her nest ; the best 
roads in the world overspread the island ; mansions nes- 
tle in picturesque beauty where once mud cottages shel- 
tered rugged chieftains from the inclement weather; 
woods have been cleared and fens drained ; the end of 
the earth has become the heart of the world; and on 
every sea and in every breeze, from castle-tower, fortress, 
mast and spire, there waves the bright red cross of good 
Saint George. The change is vast in every way. Not 
only is the physical aspect of the country different, but 
the political, social, numerical and religious conditions 
of the people are also different. Instead of a score — or 



12 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

it may have been a hundred — petty tribes warring one 
against another, we see a strong united kingdom, the 
centre of an empire and the mother of nations. Instead 
of wending our way slowly and tediously up forest- 
shaded rivers or cutting a path through a trackless wild, 
we can walk along pleasant highways or travel in swift 
haste over the iron road. The reeking torch or the 
flickering candle which served to guide our forefathers to 
their bed of straw or of rushes has given place to brilliant 
illuminations. Even the lightning, which in its furious 
might split the gnarled oak, rent the black clouds and 
struck brave Viking hearts with fear, has been taught to 
turn our night into day and bear our tidings round the 
world. The whole earth has changed, but no part more 
than England ; and, while Palestine has become a deso- 
lation and Jerusalem a heap of stones, that other holy 
land has become a paradise and her cities habitations 
of beauty. 

The land, small in territory, is confessedly great in 
deeds. Her race seems to retain the vitality and vigor 
of perennial youth. It was young when Greek ships 
sailed the midland waters and Roman hands built the 
Colosseum and made captives lay the roads which should 
lead from the ends of the earth to the Imperial City; it 
was young a thousand years ago, when Charlemagne 
reunited the divided empire and Egbert made the Saxon 
principalities one kingdom ; it was young when the Nor- 
man duke fought on the seaside battlefield and was 
crowned with the crown of the island-realm in the min- 
ster in the marsh; it was young when in its sturdy 
strength and growing ambition it wrested from John the 
Magna Carta of freedom and strove with kings till its 



INTR OB UCTOR Y. 1 3 

voice was allowed and its rights were secured ; it was still 
young three hundred years ago, when the Reformation 
gave it the liberty of the gospel of Christ and it began 
its work of subduing the untrodden wilds of lands be- 
yond the seas ; and so through the struggles of the 
Commonwealth, the wars in which a Marlborough, a 
Nelson and a Wellington won renown for themselves 
and glory for their land, and the political changes of the 
present century, its youth seems to be like that of the 
sun, renewed every morning, or like that of the giant 
oaks, slow in growth and continually reproducing them- 
selves in the seeds planted in the soil fertilized by their 
cast-off leaves. A thousand and half a thousand years 
ago the ships of that race went forth to conquer and to 
colonize from the rivers and harbors of the wild North- 
ern sea ; a thousand and half a thousand years later the 
ships of that race spread their sails before every breeze 
that stirs earth's waters and bear from land to land and 
from shore to shore the riches of earth's treasures. When 
the morning sun begins to cast its roseate beams on sky 
and sea, the banner of England is unfurled in the glory- 
stream and its blood-red tints fall on gentle wavelet and 
long-sweeping billow ; and when it sinks to rest within 
the Occidental clouds, it leaves peace with the many mul- 
titudes who speak the tongue of Alfred and of Spenser 
and name the name of Him whom Canaan rejected, but 
whom Britain loves. And to-day, while the ocean owns 
her as its mistress and one-seventh of the solid earth calls 
her queen, her men of high degree and her men of low 
degree, her lords who sit in purple and ermine in royal 
halls and her laborers who till the soil and wear rough 
clothing, they who abide within the old land itself and 



14 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

they who dwell in distant parts, — all with one heart be- 
lieve and with one voice proclaim that the glory of the 
past shall shine through the ages of the future, and that 
the cross of three ancient kingdoms shall be for ever 
the symbol and the proof of freedom, of righteousness 
and of law. 

Where is the Heart of this Merrie England ? Some 
have said " London ;" perhaps the people of England 
themselves say " London," and not without reason. We 
think, however, that the rural districts have more right 
to that title, and especially that part of the island which 
is geographically the centre. There are twenty border 
counties and twenty inland counties, and in none of 
them is old Merry England better seen than in the fair 
counties of Warwick, Worcester and Oxford. Hither 
shall we lead our readers, only once going beyond them — 
into distant Kent that we may look upon the glories of 
England's mother-church. Untrodden ground we shall 
go over, with that one, and possibly a second, exception ; 
and when we shall finish our story, we trust we shall 
have vindicated our title — at least to the extent of sug- 
gesting how much there is to be seen and known in the 
region of which we write. Alas ! we can give only the 
fragments, only the outlines : the reader must himself 
allow imagination to piece together, color and picture 
the beautiful whole. 

Nevertheless, before we begin that work, let us look 
somewhat at the great city itself. Everybody goes to 
London : a book on England without some mention of 
London would be like the play of Hamlet with the prince 
left out. As to the provincial people of the land, their 
ambition is to visit the metropolis — once in their life, at 



INTR OD UCTOR Y. 1 5 

least. That immediately raises a man to a pinnacle of 
fame far higher than he would reach by a voyage across 
the Atlantic, or even to the ends of the earth. He is an 
authority upon extraordinary matters for ever after, seeing 
that London is a tangible thing, and America, Australia 
and China are, after all, as mysterious and questionable 
as the mountains of the moon or the rings of Saturn. 

And a wonderful place the capital is, with its five mil- 
lions of people, its thronging streets, its fine buildings, its 
restless life, its noble river and its long, thrilling history. 
It would take fifteen or sixteen of the largest towns in 
England to equal that vast population. There human 
life swarms ; there all that is noble and all that is base in 
man are developed and manifested. 

One singular thing about London is that the stranger 
feels at home within the first hour of his entering its 
streets. This arises partly from the widespread informa- 
tion concerning the place and everything belonging to it, 
partly from its admirable accommodations both for trav- 
elling about and for lodging and eating, and partly from 
the fact that here one is left absolutely alone. Nobody 
looks at you ; nobody gives you a thought. Each fol- 
lows out the thread of his own life and cares nothing for 
any one else's. No man, however ambitious or ostenta- 
tious he may be, can make an impression in London ; he 
may live like a prince or dress like a beggar and nobody 
will take the least notice of him. He is a drop in the 
ocean of humanity — that, and nothing more. 

The Abbey is the first place to be seen. Enter as the 
bells are chiming for morning prayer and listen to the 
rendering of the service in a perfect way. The voices 
are correct ; the customs are simple. The General Con- 



1 6 THE HEART OF MERKIE ENGLAND. 

fession is said after, and not with, the minister; the 
Psalms are not announced ; the reader, when he leaves 
his stall for the lectern, is preceded by a verger carrying 
a long wand. During the lesson this official holds the 
clergyman's cap and at the close accompanies him back 
again. Owing to draughts some of the clergy wear 
skull-caps. Before the prayers are ended the devout 
worshipper will wonder if heaven itself is more impress- 
ive and beautiful than this marvellous building, with its 
lofty height and hallowed associations. When this duty- 
is over, the guides are ready to take visitors around the 
building. 

Guides are useful if they know anything. Generally 
speaking, they have deep sepulchral voices and depress- 
ingly melancholy manners. They go over the same 
story so often that their interest in it is very small. 
Fortunately, the means of description are not confined 
to them, and the intelligent visitor can, if he will, know 
beforehand more than they can tell him. He will look 
with reverence upon the tomb of Edward the Confessor 
and walk with awe near the grave of the good Queen 
Maud. This is the most sacred part of the building, 
and the dark arched recesses in the shrine remind one 
of the days when men knelt therein, pressed their fore- 
heads against the cold stone and prayed for healing or 
for pardon. The dust of kings and of queens is beneath 
almost every part of this hallowed chapel. There lie the 
remains of Henry III., Edward I. and the beloved Queen 
Eleanor, Edward III. and Henry V., and close by is the 
ancient coronation-chair with the veritable stone upon 
which Jacob slept at Bethel and on which the kings of 
Scotland and of England have been crowned for many 



INTR OD UCTOR Y. \J 

centuries. The chapel of Henry VII. is one of the most 
lovely Gothic buildings in the world. There is the tomb 
of that king, and over the grave of Edward VI. a mod- 
ern communion-table of rich materials has been placed. 
Objects of interest await one at every turn — in the main 
structure and in the chapels. Earth's great ones lie on 
every side — poets, statesmen and warriors, as well as 
they who have borne the sceptre and worn the crown. 
The extent and massiveness of the building, as well as 
its rare beauty and splendor, are marvellous and grow 
upon one. Nor should the Chapter-House or the Dean's 
Yard be overlooked. A day within the sacred precincts 
is better than a thousand elsewhere. 

The effect of St. Paul's upon the mind is different. 
Its vastness overpowers, but the pagan architecture can- 
not impress one in the same way as the Gothic. Nor 
has the place the history of the Abbey. The monu- 
ments are severe in tone ; the pulpit is of costly material. 
In the dome is the Whispering Gallery, and from the 
Stone Gallery outside a splendid view of the city may be 
had on a fine day. From the ground to this point are 
five hundred and sixty steps. Lord Nelson and the duke 
of Wellington lie in the crypt — the former in the sar- 
cophagus which Wolsey intended for himself; but he 
fell from favor, and it was kept unused. 

Few places are more interesting than is the Tower. We 
were more impressed with the buildings themselves than 
with the crown jewels, resplendent and of untold wealth 
though they are. The past came back again, only the 
Beefeaters, with their nice clean collars and well-blacked 
boots, seemed somewhat out of place. The " Traitors' 
Gate " tells its own story. In the armories are the an- 



18 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

cient equipments of war — battle-axes, swords, lances, 
etc. How the soldiers moved in such heavy encase- 
ments or wielded such long pikes is a question. Instru- 
ments of torture are also to be seen — the thumbscrews, 
a model of the rack and the block and axe with which 
some great ones were executed. Between the White 
Tower and the Beauchamp Tower is the spot where the 
prisoners condemned to die were beheaded, and in the 
Beauchamp Tower itself is the room where the state 
offenders of high rank were kept. They seem to have 
spent some of their time in cutting out their names or 
devices in the wall. There is the name of "Jane" — 
the poor lady remembered by all as one of the sweetest 
and most unfortunate of women. In St. Peter's Chapel, 
close by, are the monuments of many of those who suf- 
fered in the Tower. Two of Henry VIII. 's wives lie 
side by side near the altar ; Lady Jane Grey is also there, 
with many another. The Beefeater told us of the honor 
of being put to death within the Tower : outside, a rude 
and thoughtless mob annoyed and maltreated the con- 
demned prisoner, but here he died in peace. This is 
grim glory, and one is thankful that times have changed. 
The Tower brings history home quicker than any 
other place in London. Its stories of woe, its legends 
and traditions, weird, sad, mysterious, are written in liv- 
ing lines. Its very ground was once trodden by mighty 
ones ; we see the same great walls they saw, thread our 
way through the same dark, narrow passages and sit in 
the rooms where many of them spent their last hours. 
It is a past full of shadows — the young princes smother- 
ing in the dead of the night, Anne Boleyn suffering the 
cruelty of a selfish king, and many another character 



INTR OD UCTOR V. 1 9 

famous in history passing through trial for charges, 
sometimes, of suspicion or jealousy only. Will that 
gloomy fortress ever reveal the secrets in its keeping ? 

Up the Thames, near to the Abbey, are the Parliament 
Buildings, stately and large. The Victoria Tower is a 
work of art ; under it we enter, and pass through the 
Queen's Robing-Room, the Royal Galleries and the 
Princes' Chamber into the House of Lords. The paint- 
ings, statuary, decorations and architecture are elaborate; 
the throne and woolsack, of interest. On the way to 
the House of Commons are some remarkable pictures, 
but in the chamber where the faithful representatives of 
the boroughs and shires meet splendor has given place 
to severe simplicity. From St. Stephen's Hall is reached 
the famous Westminster Hall ; here the carved and wide 
roof attracts attention. The remembrance of the his- 
torical scenes which have taken place there subdues the 
mind. Within these walls were tried Charles I. and the 
seven bishops ; within these walls the unfortunate Rich- 
ard II. was deposed and Oliver Cromwell was installed 
as Lord Protector. It is a place for thinking mighty 
thoughts. 

Of the Guildhall, with its picture-gallery, museum, 
library and great chamber, the Royal Exchange, the 
Bank of England, Paternoster Row and the Monument 
it is unnecessary to say anything. The British Museum 
contains some of the greatest wonders in the world. 
The buildings are so large and have so many curiosities 
that one can get only a vague bird's-eye view of the whole. 
There are old manuscripts and illuminated books beau- 
tifully and wonderfully executed by the men of bygone 
days. Printing can scarcely equal some of the monkish 



20 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

work : the colors are bright and fresh as ever, the pen- 
manship — oftentimes exceedingly small — is accurate and 
the binding is strong and lasting. Next to Bibles, mis- 
sals, psalters and Hours of the Virgin, the most popular 
manuscript books were the Romaunt de la Rose and 
Froissart. Some of these volumes — or, at least, the like 
— were handled by men and women whose ashes lie in 
the Abbey or at the Tower. In the Museum, however, 
one is taken back to ages which were ancient when Eng- 
land was young. In one of the Egyptian rooms are 
mummies two or three thousand years old. Some of 
the coffins are very elaborately painted in bright colors, 
with figures of gods and many devices. The face of the 
deceased is delineated on the coffin, and such designs 
differ enough from one another to make one pretty sure 
that they are correct, and not conventional representa- 
tions. The wood of the coffin is very thick — in some 
instances, eight inches — and some bodies have two cof- 
fins. The hands of the deceased are frequently repre- 
sented as crossed on the breast. There is a coffin con- 
taining the mummy of a Graeco- Egyptian child — prob- 
ably a girl, and about six years old — dating, according 
to the printed label from Thebes, about a. d. ioo. On 
the painted cover she is represented as having a wreath 
upon her head and a flower in her left hand — somebody's 
darling sent into the dark realm from amid the sorrow- 
ings of loved ones left behind. There are also the mum- 
mies of many of the great Egyptian princes and states- 
men ; also of cats, snakes, ibis, geese and gazelles. 
" Tabby" is there, unmistakably. Figures of the deity 
are common ; so are Egyptian hairpins with the image 
of Aphrodite on the top, and lamps curiously ornamented 



INTR OD UCTOR Y. 2 1 

with devices of Dionysos and Ariadne, Venus, and other 
favorite personages. There is one lamp with a cast of a 
locust on an ear of corn. That children have always 
been children the ancient toys testify. 

In the Assyrian and other departments the objects of 
interest are as great. The wealth of collection is enor- 
mous. One is bewildered — perhaps provoked — with the 
consciousness of brief time ; there is the material for 
years of study. The place is worthy of England; to 
see the Reading-Room is itself deserving of a trip to 
London. 

It is the correct thing to visit and admire the wax- 
works of Madame Tussaud in Marylebone. We did the 
one ; the other was not so easy. At the best the charac- 
ters presented are only imitations ; there is nothing real. 
The " Chamber of Horrors " contains a ghastly array of 
celebrated murderers ; morbid taste which makes it the 
favorite corner of the building ! In the grand salon are 
wax figures of old men and women sitting or standing 
here and there, turning their heads and looking so like 
life that many visitors find themselves for the moment 
deceived. 

They who love pictures will visit the Royal Academy 
and the National Gallery. Kew Gardens will satisfy the 
disciples of botany with its lovely grounds, noble vistas 
and extensive collection of flowers, trees and plants. 
The Cleopatra obelisk looks unspeakably lonely on the 
Thames Embankment. A day at the Zoological Gar- 
dens will not exhaust its treasures. 

But we may not thus travel over London. Volumes 
would be needed to tell the story of its wonderful places. 
The people themselves are curious. 



22 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

Is there a busier thoroughfare in the world than Fleet 
street and the Strand? A river of humanity flowing 
hither and thither ceaselessly ! Strange in an instant to 
turn aside into the calm of the Temple ! That is the 
peculiarity of London — its quiet nooks and corners 
close to its noisy centres. And there are streets of rare 
splendor where wealth displays itself in unequalled mag- 
nificence, and there are streets of rare poverty such as 
the world knows nothing of elsewhere. It is not very 
far from Rotten Row to the slums of vice and infamy, 
but the contrast is beyond measuring. The want and 
misery, the brazen-faced sin, of these back streets and 
lanes, are terrible. The Church is striving to grapple 
with the evil, but the work is appalling. Where and 
how do the millions live ? Yet there is no confusion, 
no bustle ; everything is orderly : the great city has too 
much to do to be in a hurry. 

London has some great preachers. Their names are 
on every one's lips — Liddon, Spurgeon and Parker. 
They are not to be compared together; each is a 
master in his own way. When they preach, thou- 
sands of people go to hear them. They are the 
world's favorites, and each of them addresses an audi- 
ence gathered from all parts of the earth. After them 
come others at a respectful distance — some about as far 
as the west is from the east. There is no doubt that 
the English and American ideals of preaching differ, but 
the standard is higher on the western side of the Atlan- 
tic, the preacher is better able to attract his hearers and 
the people are quicker in appreciation. England, how- 
ever, more than holds its own in singing. The masses 
have voices and the choirs a perfection of which we can 



INTR OD UCTOR V. 2$ 

only dream. On one church door I saw a notice that 
on the following Sunday would be held the annual bap- 
tismal service. Whether this meant that baptism was 
administered only once a year I do not know, but un- 
derneath the notice was, " Baptism is a sign that God 
loves us all, even little children." 

English is spoken in London, but among the ordinary 
people the aspirate suffers. One day the conductor on 
an omnibus cried out, " 'Yde Park !" and a gentleman 
said to him, " You have dropped something." — " What ?" 
he asked, in alarm, looking around. — " An H," the gen- 
tleman replied. — " That's nothing," was the answer from 
the much-relieved official ; " I shall pick it up in Hisl- 
ington." 

The well-paved and orderly streets attract as much at- 
tention as does the dim, smoky atmosphere. The effect 
of the latter on one's linen is soon discerned ; the former 
are as clean as a new pin. A yellow fog is the most 
distressing calamity, but in the summer such rarely or 
never occurs. Nowhere do the people seem more happy. 
The bootblack and the apple-woman have the sunshine 
of felicity upon them. " Misery " appears to be a rela- 
tive term. The poor are not so miserable as their bet- 
ters suppose them to be ; indeed, they manage to squeeze 
as much pleasure out of life as they who live in palaces 
of cedar. Nor have the poor complained : their griev- 
ances have been made known by those in higher cir- 
cumstances. Some of them love their poverty. Alas 
that it should be so ! for poverty means degradation 
and dependence — in many instances, vice unnamable. 

We hurry out of the smoke and bustle and seek the 
railway- station. Here we read of the " Daily Service 



24 THE HEART OE MERE IE ENGLAND. 

of Trains ;" the meaning is obvious, though the use is 
startling. 

The railway-coaches appear tiny and quaint to one 
accustomed to the huge, pew-like cars of America. 
Some do not like the compartments, though a little 
use shows that they have advantages, and are, at any 
rate, snug and comfortable. If you wish for amuse- 
ment, see how the open, honest-looking, apple-round 
faces of the railway servants expand under the genial 
influence of a tip. The chances for trying this experi- 
ment on others besides railway servants are of frequent 
occurrence in England, and, though the effect may be 
otherwise with the giver, there is no doubt of its pleas- 
ing efficacy with the receiver. Away rushes the train 
into the heart of merry and lovely England. The hay- 
makers are busy in the fields ; the trees and hedgerows 
display their sweet, fresh green ; peace and beauty rest 
and play in the sunshine, on the soft and velvety lawns 
and in the shaded lanes. Cottages and mansions spring 
into view, and flower-gardens rich with a profusion of 
roses such as can grow only in this rich land. The vil- 
lages through which we pass seem to sleep in the indo- 
lence of rural glory and the quietude of honored age. 
One has the sign on its solitary tavern of " The Old 
House at Home " — a happy suggestion. 

When our journey ends, it is in one of the districts 
of England as delightful in its quiet beauty as it is 
precious to us for its associations of bygone days. 



CHAPTER II. 

Ei)t tillage on tfje gtoux. 

" And the voice of man is a voice of change, 
Mirthful and passionate, loving and strange ; 
But, be the day cloudy or brief or long, 
The river will sing you the same old song." 

In a secluded and detached part of Worcestershire, 
ten miles to the south of Stratford-on-Avon, and sur- 
rounded by the counties of Warwick, Oxford and Glou- 
cester, is the forgotten town of Shipston-on-Stour. The 
town is pre-Norman in origin and was once famous for 
its sheep-markets. It fell asleep some two centuries 
since, and so far the tumult and turmoil of the present 
age have failed to awaken it. A single telegraph-wire, a 
mail-cart passing through early in the morning and late 
at night and two carriers' vans connect it with the out- 
side world, and weekly papers from Banbury, Evesham 
and Stratford keep the inhabitants informed on the 
changes of the moon and the alternations of govern- 
ment. The people lament their isolation. Thirty years 
ago they decided that a railway was necessary for their 
welfare and progress ; they have affirmed that decision 
several times since, but the railway has not come. Two 
or three times they have started a newspaper of their 
own, but the enterprise speedily came to grief. Its 

25 



26 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

drapers and milliners furnish the latest styles in gowns 
and bonnets, cloths and collars — that is to say, the latest 
styles of which they know anything, though in London 
they are spoken of as " late " in another sense. The 
streets are old ; the houses are old ; the men and women, 
the boys and girls, are old; everything is musty with 
age and quaint with peculiarity. There are fences and 
barns, tumble-down, patched-up, worn-out, as they were 
twenty or thirty years since. Some of the thatch has 
not been touched for half a century. The wooden pump 
in the middle of New street was old when the paint on 
the rectory fence was new — apparently in the days of 
William IV. Inns and their signs, cottages and their 
windows, the lamp-posts and the trees, look as if they 
had never known anything but age and rest. It is hard 
to realize that the streets have been mended since the 
day when troopers rattled over them on their way to 
Edgehill. In 1780, Nash, the historian of Worcester- 
shire, wrote : " Here was a considerable manufacture of 
shaggs, carried on by one Mr. Hart, but, that declining, 
the town was left in great poverty. Many of the houses 
are still thatched, but, as the unemployed manufacturers 
die, migrate to other places or take to other businesses, 
the town is not so burthened with poor, and subsequently 
improves much in appearance." Seventy years later an- 
other visitor wrote : The place " leads one's thoughts 
irresistibly to the past, and to the conclusion that this is 
by no means a 'go-ahead' town." In 185 1 the popula- 
tion numbered 1757 persons; in 1 881, 1600. 

And in this lies its charm : its very dulness attracts 
and pleases. It is something to go back to times when 
the world was different from the present. Here one can 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 2*] 

without effort picture village life as it was centuries ago, 
and see for one's self how and where past generations 
lived. The restfulness is refreshing and delightful. De- 
cay may be in all one sees ; change is not. 

To describe the topography of Shipston is somewhat 
difficult. The town is on the highway from Birming- 
ham to Oxford— about halfway between those places, 
and between Stratford and Chapel House. The " Half- 
way House," a secluded cottage, is by the side of the 
road, between Tredington and the Honington tollgate. 
The highway enters the place at its northern end, and, 
bending a little to the left, goes for some distance past 
the church, when it divides, one branch turning to the 
east for Banbury, and the other, the main road, after a 
twist to the right and then to the left, passing through 
New street to Chipping Norton. This highway may be 
called the base of the town ; it is irregularly built up, 
and, as the river runs along the gardens of the houses 
on the eastern side, there are no streets in that direction. 
Its principal feature is the church, of which more pres- 
ently. On the western side there are other thorough- 
fares coming in. The first, Horn lane, is a narrow way 
running the full breadth of the place ; a little farther is 
a short street called the Shambles, branching off like the 
arms of the letter Y, one of which branches runs parallel 
with Horn lane into a continuation known as Sheep street, 
and the other into the centre of the town. This centre 
is a sort of crooked square, a queer-looking triangle 
with a narrow base and the apex cut off— an approach 
to a parallelogram. Euclid has no diagram that comes 
near that "centre;" and if he had tried to describe it 
mathematically, he would never have made A B equal 



28 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

to C D, nor A C equal to B D, nor any other combina- 
tions or comparisons coequal. This " centre," with 
Sheep street at one end, and the twist of the London 
highway at the other, contains the principal shops, banks 
and one of the leading hotels of the place. At its south- 
ern end another lane joins the London road, forming the 
third and last street across the town. In this lane was 
till lately an old tavern known as the " Swan," hence its 
name. Between the " Swan " and the High street — that 
is the name of the indescribable centre — is the Back 
road, which runs in the same direction as New street, 
and finally joins it. The Swan lane changes into the 
road to Moreton-in-the-Marsh, and at right angles with 
its western end is the road passing by Sheep street and 
Horn lane to Darlingscote. There are {qw really old 
houses in Shipston, but one at the top of Sheep street 
dates from 1678, another in the same street from 17 14, 
and the Crown Inn, in the Shambles, also from this 
later year. 

In Sheep street is the building formerly used by the 
national school. It is a small old cottage with one room, 
in which the poor boys and girls of the town received 
their " education." It is now empty and deserted, the 
one window broken, the roof falling in and the little tin 
kettle of a bell rusty and bent. Possibly the house was 
built in the early part of the last century. A relic of 
departed grandeur, but nearly all the old folks in the 
place who can read their Bible and write their name ob- 
tained the rudiments there. If they did not learn deci- 
mal fractions, they were drilled in the Catechism ; and, 
as all men know, it is better to understand how to live 
than how to get a living. Now the youth are sent to 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 29 

the new and commodious buildings in the Stratford road. 
The board school has possession of the town, and the 
board school is struggling to brighten the juvenile in- 
telligence. It has its hands full. The boys, girls and 
infants are separated ; teachers and monitors are set 
in each department ; excellent text-books are used, and 
everything is done to give a fair secular education. Re- 
ligion is not taught : the English people are religious by 
instinct, and do not need to learn anything of that kind. 
In days gone by, when the State appreciated the educa- 
tion and health of the spiritual faculties, it insisted upon 
every one attending church, and fined and punished 
those who stayed away; a great outcry was made in 
later years, and even now some are not tired of flinging 
abuse of every kind at our forefathers because of this, as 
its opponents called it, tyranny and bigotry ; but in this age 
the State, in its desire to educate and enliven the mental 
faculties, insists upon every boy and every girl going to 
school, and, if the child does not, fines and punishes the 
parents. Nay, the people are obliged to pay in taxes for 
the maintenance of a school system in which many of 
them do not believe. Still, we must remember that arith- 
metic is of more consequence than are Scripture les- 
sons, and that it is vastly more important that a boy's 
mind should be filled with the scraps of erudition which 
are chipped off the school-board curriculum than that 
his soul should be possessed with a sense of his duty 
toward God and his neighbor. Times have changed. 
The State, which neither endowed nor established the 
Church, but, on the other hand, robbed her of half her 
wealth at the Reformation, and is now contemplating 
taking away the other half, has given largely to the 



3<D THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

school and supports it with all the force of its authority. 
There is in England no such thing as an established 
Church, but there is an established school. Valiantly is 
the school board fighting its way. But the material! 
Is there anything in the lands beyond the setting sun 
approaching the pure blockheadedness of the English 
peasant-boy ? He is dull, heavy, stupid, and, compared 
with the youth on the western shores of the Atlantic, is 
as the blunt edge of a rusty knife beside the fine keen 
edge of a good razor. The transformation of a thick- 
limbed dray-horse into a light, fleet racer or a nimble cir- 
cus-performer presents no greater difficulty than does the 
uplifting and bettering of the sons and daughters of poor 
Hodge. In the palace of the Caesars at Rome there is 
a rude sketch on the wall, done many centuries ago, of 
a schoolmaster wearing an ass's head and turning the 
handle of a conical stone mill, into which he is putting 
boys to grind. The point of the satire is that the boys 
are coming out at the bottom exactly as they went in. 
I do not imply that this is the case with the material of 
the school board ; I only tell a pleasant story. But, as 
caste is very strongly marked, as soon as the middle class 
is reached a higher grade of intellectual power is mani- 
fest. For the boys of the better-to-do people in Shipston 
there is a large and good school under private auspices 
and dignified with the name of " the Academy." It is 
not so styled after the Academie Franchise, but it can 
give a lad a start toward the higher life. Some of its 
scholars have gone creditably through the university, 
and it is said that its earnest and accomplished master 
once succeeded in carrying a heavy son of a heavy far- 
mer as far as the eleventh page of Hopkins's ortho- 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 3 1 

graphical exercises and up to the verb " To have " in 
Lindley Murray. Of this latter feat I cannot speak with 
certainty, but at seven o'clock every summer morning 
the whole school was marshalled in the courtyard for an 
hour's drill. There was an opinion that this was neces- 
sary in order to vindicate the right of the institution to 
be called an " academy." 

The present parish church was built on the site of an 
older one about the year 1853. The old church had 
reached a state when removal was absolutely necessary. 
It was remarkable not only for its slovenly and mongrel 
appearance, but also for the egotism and petty vanity 
displayed on its walls. About 1826 the building was 
whitewashed, and the churchwardens under whose di- 
rections this important work was done had their names 
inscribed in large letters at the western end. " So, like- 
wise," said one who knew the old edifice well, " on the 
table of charities, whoever had presented a pulpit-cloth 
or furniture for the communion-table, or repaired the 
front of the gallery, or some other little matter, was 
posted up for the admiring eyes of after-generations." 
One of these benefactors repaired the pavement in the 
churchyard, it has been said, by abstracting the grave- 
stones of his neighbors. The only thing which saved 
the place from the lowest kind of obituary desecration 
was that it had no tablet like unto one which is to be 
found in the porch of another Worcestershire church. 
It is to the memory of a man who died in 1772, and the 
inscription is as follows : 

" A man for polite knowledge and true taste in useful literature 
justly esteemed ; nor in the social virtues as a sincere friend, a 
good neighbour, and an honest man, less regarded. At his own 



32 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

particular desire he was buried beneath this stone, that his friends 
the poor, as they pass over his grave, might lay their hands upon 
their hearts, and say, ' It was his modesty, not his pride, that 
directed this request.' " 

The following epitaphs were preserved at Shipston ; 
the first is still at the west end of the church, but the 
others were in the yard, and are now undecipherable : 

TO GULIELMUS HYCKES (1652). 
" Here lies entomb' d more men than Greece admired, 
More than Pythagoras transient soule inspir'd, 
Many in one, a man accumulate, 
Gentleman, Artist, Scholar, Church, World, State : 
Soe wise, soe just, that spot him noe man could. 
Pitty that I, with my weake prayses should. 
Goe then, greate spirit, obey thy suddaine call — 
Wild fruits hang long — the purer tymely fall." 

" Beneath this stone three tender buds are laid, 
No sooner blossom'd but alas they fade ; 
In silence lie, in hopes again to bloom 
After the final day of mortal doom. 
Oh then these buds which did so early blast, 
Shall flourish whilst eternal ages last." 

" Death lopt me of, and laide me here to sleepe ; 
My viol's tun'd to th' sound of them that weep. 
Yett God, I trust, will grant my soul's desire, 
To sing a part in His most heavenly quire." 

Of the old church, only the tower remains. The new 
building has a nave and two aisles and is singularly 
void of ornamentation. A few texts over the arches 
and a colored eastern window are the only attempts at 
aesthetic display. The architectural proportions are 
good, but the pews are narrow and not made for kneel- 
ing-purposes, and the pulpit is of a shape and character 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 33 

to suggest its having once been a chimney-pot on an 
old-time mansion. A dreary building, drearier still in 
its reproachful emptiness. Formerly the edifice was 
crowded at both Sunday services ; now a bare handful 
of worshippers in the morning and a scarcely larger 
company in the evening indicate either inefficiency of 
ministration or the dying out of church-interest. Matins 
and evensong are said every day ; the rector is there, 
the pillars and pews are there, but even the bell-ringer 
runs off to attend to her household duties as soon as 
the service begins. The parish priest is conscientious in 
his performance of this daily office ; the people are as 
conscientious in staying away. Were half a dozen 
worshippers present, the surprise and excitement would 
endanger the health of the rector for some time. In 
view of the apparent change in his parishioners and the 
approaching end of the world, he would apply himself 
with renewed vigor to the house-to-house visitation of 
the people. The nonconformist places of worship, how- 
ever, are filled to overflowing and street-preachers are 
common. The glory has departed ! This, which should 
be the centre of Church power and influence throughout 
the district, neither recognizes the dignity and extent of 
its capabilities nor puts forth a sign of interest or vitality. 
Perhaps the most painful thought connected with this 
decay of a once-prosperous parish is its suggestion of 
the powerlessness of the ecclesiastical organization. The 
diocesan authorities may see the church go to ruin, but 
they cannot interfere. The parishioners may watch the 
wasting away of their spiritual heritage, but they can do 
nothing. Even the bishop has no coercive jurisdiction. 
We manage these things better in America. There the 



34 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

whole force and authority of the Church would be 
brought to bear upon such a state of affairs as that 
which here exists, and either the parish would have to 
live and work or it would be put away to rest for ever. 
The rectorial income, derived from endowment, is up- 
ward of eight hundred pounds a year ; the church in- 
come, derived from the pew-rents and offertory, is not 
sufficient to pay the small expenses of the building. 
The best pews contain five sittings and rent for twenty- 
nine shillings a year ; in America the same pews would 
rent for upward of fifteen pounds, and in large Church 
centres for even twenty-five pounds. The well-to-do 
folk of Shipston can make two guineas cover their indi- 
vidual church expenses ; the same class of people in the 
United States would not find the limit under fifty times 
that amount. A parish of sixteen hundred souls, with- 
out debt to satisfy, endowment to secure or clergyman 
to support, which is obliged to send its churchwardens 
around the town to collect a deficit of seventeen pounds 
— which personal canvass resulted an Easter or so since 
in gathering but ten pounds — can neither live with credit 
nor die with dignity. The hopelessness of its condition 
appears in the lack of hospitality : the stranger will find 
no welcome either by a visit from the rector or an offer 
of a seat in the church from the parishioners. 

The edifice is dedicated to St. Edmund of Canterbury. 
He was born at Abingdon about the year 1 190, and was 
remarkable for his scholarship, his ascetic and pure life 
and his bold efforts to better the times in which he lived. 
He inherited his mother's severe religious convictions : 
" She fasted much and slept little, wore a hair chemise and 
iron stays, and made her household so uncomfortable by 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 35 

her arrangements that her husband, with her consent, 
retired to a monastery at Eynesham, as likely to be a 
more enjoyable home." At Oxford, while a mere gram- 
mar student, he determined never to wed an earthly 
bride : " Standing alone one day in church, he plighted 
his troth to the Blessed Virgin, and in token thereof 
placed a gold ring on the finger of her image. He 
placed another ring, similarly inscribed with the words 
of the angelic salutation, on his own finger, where he 
wore it constantly until the day of his death." After a 
career of honor and usefulness he was made archbishop 
of Canterbury in 1234, and it has well been said that 
" in the long succession of primates it is not easy to find 
one who surpasses him in the perfections of the Chris- 
tian character or in the attributes of a Christian bishop." 
His patriotism, resistance to Rome and efforts to reform 
the Church give him a lasting place in the pages of 
English history. There was much evil in the age, but he 
was as a clear and shining light in the darkness. When, 
owing to repeated defeat, he resigned the see of Canter- 
bury, he retired to the Continent, and in 1240, at the 
priory of Soissy, he died. His remains were interred at 
Pontigny, and soon his fame rivalled that of his prede- 
cessor, St. Thomas. He was canonized, and miracles 
were performed at his shrine. 

The parish was down to the year 1720 subject to and 
part of the jurisdiction of Tredington. An almost com- 
plete list of the rectors of the parish from the year 1282 
is extant. From 1427 to 1873 there were twenty-two 
rectors, of whom Peter Vannes, archdeacon of Wor- 
cester, was remarkable both for his incumbency being 
the longest of any — fifty years — and also for his guid- 



36 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

ing the parish through the trying Reformation era, from 
1 541 to 1 591. The continuity of the Church of Eng- 
land is thus exemplified. Other long rectorships were 
those of Walter Fitzwarin (1282-1310), Felix de Mas- 
saveria (1503-1541) and William Evans (1827-1873). 
The first of these was probably of Norman descent ; 
the second was an Italian, and the third a Welshman. 
In Henry Sampson, who died in 1482 and has a brass 
to his memory in the mother-church at Tredington, we 
are reminded of one of Carlyle's characters ; but whether 
he were like unto the hero of Past and Present we know 
not. A complete list of the curates of Shipston from 
1596 is also in existence. 

In the old registers are items of interest to the curi- 
ously inclined. It was in the twenty-ninth year of the 
reign of Henry VIII. (1538) the injunction was issued 
directing that registers on vellum should be kept in 
every parish in the realm. The oldest registers of this 
neighborhood are those of Tredington, which begin in 
1 541 ; after them come those of Halford, beginning in 
1545, and Shipston, in 1572. They are written partly 
in Latin and partly in English, some in a good hand 
and some frightful to behold. During the troublous 
times of the Commonwealth the registers as well as 
the churches were in great danger of desecration. 
The rector of Barcheston, a village half a mile from 
Shipston, in 1647 wrote in his register, dating from 1559, 
11 Digne hoc antiquum perdet quicunq registrum, filius 
appellatus perditionis sit " (" Whosoever destroys this 
ancient register will rightly be called the son of per- 
dition "). Mixed up with the ordinary entries occur 
notices of parochial events of more or less importance. 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 37 

At Shipston, under date of October 12, 161 2, we find 
the record, " Peter Churchporch, fond in ye church- 
porch at Todnam, was baptized at Shipston, and had 
the name then given him, Peter Todnam, alias Church- 
porch." The following entry is also suggestive : " Eliza- 
beth Thornet, widow, was buried in 1695, at ye upper 
end of the highway leading from ye Custard Lane, 
through ye piece of ground commonly called ye Horse 
Fair, for hanging herself ye day before ; she was blind 
and 86 years of age." The old law directed the suicide 
to be buried in a cross-road with a stake driven through 
his body, and a finger-post to be erected to mark his 
grave for public scorn ; this poor blind wretch, weary 
of life, perhaps abused and maltreated, insane, and very 
likely regarded as a witch, suffered the legal penalty of 
her crime. In 1678 the statute was passed enforcing the 
burial of the dead in woollen shrouds for the encourage- 
ment of the manufacturers, and, though affidavits had to 
be made that the law had been complied with, the regis- 
ters show that it was easy enough to evade it by paying 
a fine. Even now the people always lay out their dead 
in a white shroud pure as the robe they shall wear in 
the kingdom of their Lord, with the face upward, in 
token of hope, and the feet to the east, symbolical of 
the resurrection ; and though they bury them in a cof- 
fin, while in olden time they were commonly put simply 
in the grave, they have not yet learned the horrible and 
ghastly word " casket." Mention is frequently made of 
the " briefs," the circular letters spoken of in the rubric 
after the Nicene Creed. These briefs were issued by 
the bishop or government, generally in alleviation of 
losses by fire or flood or disease of cattle, for building 



38 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

of churches, the redemption of slaves, and other chari- 
table purposes. The sympathy for the Protestants of 
Switzerland and France in the Reformation times, and 
for the latter after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, 
was great in this neighborhood. An entry of April 6, 
1688, states that in the town of Shipston there was 
gathered toward the relief of the French Protestants 
the sum of eighteen shillings and tenpence. Tidming- 
ton, united with Shipston under the one rector, though 
a separate parish a mile and a half distant, in 1692 gath- 
ered for the same purpose one pound seven shillings, and 
in 1699, "for the poor Protestant Vaudois, £0. 3s. od.," 
and for the redemption of captives three pounds ten 
shillings and nine pence. In 1723 the same register 
records the giving of sixpence to " three slaves which 
was abused by the Turks." For their souls' health 
certain evil people were " cited " to appear before the 
vicar-general and do penance ; offenders at Shipston had 
to go to the rector of Tredington. The relief of beg- 
gars fell largely upon the churchwardens. We read of 
alms given " to a poor sailor," " to a lame seaman," " to 
a man that was drownded out," " to a man who was 
burnt out," " to a poor man that was robbed," " to two 
men and their wives and six children that were robbed 
agoing to New England," and " to sum seamen that ye 
ship was destroyed by a tempest at sea last December, 
of thunder and lightning." The registers also speak of 
the visitations and record the expenses connected there- 
with; thus, in 1708, at Tredington, "our dinners" cost 
two shillings and " extraordinaries " two shillings and 
fourpence. What these " extraordinaries " were can 
easily be surmised. In the register at Solihull are 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 39 

these curious items, under date of 1658: "Paid for 
making a cucking stoole, and for beere at the draw- 
ing it up to the Crosse, 10s. 4d. ;" " A penniworth of 
paper for ye parishners ;" " To W. Stretch to stop his 
mouth, 2s.;" " To Widow Bird pitifully complayning, 
is.;" "To a woman which sat in the churchyard a 
great while, is.;" and "To agoing before justice St. 
Nicholas with the young people which would not go 
to service, is. 2d." 

In the Shipston books there is an inventory, made in 
1638, of the church goods and furniture. The books 
enumerated are one great Bible, two Common Prayers, 
Jewell's Works, Erasmus's Paraphrase, The Book of 
Homilies, The Constitutions, Mustullus's Works, the 
register books, two paper books to write account of 
officers, and Edward Pittway's gift-books. The Pittways 
were an ancient and honorable family in the town ; the 
first burial recorded is that of " Edward- Pitway," and in 
1706 John Pittway, ironmonger, bequeathed lands and 
tenements out of which four pounds a year was to be 
paid to the minister to teach six poor boys to " write a 
legible hand and say the Church Catechism, with the 
exposition thereof, without book, and to learn two or 
three rules in arithmetic." Besides the books, the church 
owned a surplice, a poor-box, a linen tablecloth, a ladder 
and two pewter flagons. There are entries of expenses 
for making the tablecloth and washing the surplice ; also, 
in 1592, for repairing one of the bells. It would appear 
that the clapper of this bell had broken ; the clapper had 
therefore to be sent to Wotton and the bell to be taken 
down. Items are given " for drink when the bell was 
taken down " and " for drink at the hanging up of the 



40 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

bell." " Old Herst " was paid " for going to Brayles for 
Tooley," and Tooley was paid " for the hanging up of 
the bell." Then " grease for the bells " was bought, and 
in the course of the work or the ensuing festivities " a 
jug of the goo^wife Wooley was lost," which had to be 
paid for. In October, 1695, we read, "Memorandum, 
that the 5 old bells were new cast by Mr. Koon, of 
Woodstock. The waight was 34 cwt. 3 qrs. 10 lbs., and 
to have ^18 for casting them, some of this money col- 
lected by subscription, and other by levy." The old 
bells were made up into six, and the six still ring in the 
same ancient tower. A curious custom has held its own 
both here and at Barcheston — viz., the tolling of a bell 
at the end of the Sunday-morning service. No satisfac- 
tory reason has been given for either the origin or the 
continuance of the custom. There is also a bell rung at 
Shipston every morning at five o'clock and every even- 
ing at eight, and at the end of the toll the day of the 
month is numbered. The common opinion is that many 
years ago a gentleman who had chanced to lose his way 
in the neighborhood left money for the ringing of the 
bell. In 1739 the item is given, " Rump of beef for 
ringers at Christmas, 4s. ;" the great Yuletide is still 
rung in as in the days of yore. In 173 1 " it was agreed 
upon that the churchwardens, overseers of the poor and 
the constable shall hold a vestry the first Sunday in 
every month after evening prayer and bring their ac- 
counts to be examined." The first year after death is 
still called the " dead year," and in the parish records it 
is termed " the dead's year, according to the custom of 
the manor." Thus a bequest is made to a person for his 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 4 1 

natural life and for the dead's year — that is, to his estate 
for a year after his death. 

The holding of a vestry on Sunday seems to indicate 
that Puritan ideas concerning the Sabbath did not pre- 
vail at Shipston. The tendency has rather been to a 
more liberal observance of the day. The Puritans imi- 
tated the Jews in this respect, as in others. The rabbis 
were excessive in their reverence for the day. If a house 
were burning, one could save one's clothes only by wear- 
ing them : they could not be carried out except by suc- 
cessively putting them on. If a hen laid an egg on the 
Sabbath-day, it might not be eaten, because she had no 
right to break the commandment. Women were forbid- 
den to look into the glass on the Sabbath, because they 
might discover a white hair and attempt to pull it out, 
which would be a grievous sin. One was not allowed 
to wear false teeth on the Sabbath, because they might 
fall out and their owner be tempted to pick them up and 
put them back or carry them. So the Puritan, partaking 
of the same spirit, held that to do any work on that day 
was as great a sin as murder or adultery. He was not 
allowed to smile or to kiss his wife on the Sabbath. To 
shave or to cut finger-nails was extreme profligacy and 
a sure sign of reprobation. The water which was drawn 
from the well on Saturday night had to last till Monday 
morning. Such fine distinctions are sometimes awkward, 
as an old story tells us. In 1260 a Jew of Tewkesbury 
fell into a sink on the Sabbath-day, and because of his 
reverence for that day he would not suffer himself to be 
drawn out ; on Sunday the earl's reverence would not 
allow him to be delivered ; and so between the two he 
died. There is no evidence that Shipston ever favored 



42 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

such extreme views, or that the people objected to the 
Book of Sports. They were dull, but they were not 
narrow. 

The first mention of Shipston occurs more than a 
thousand years ago. It was probably so called on ac- 
count of its famous and extensive sheep-markets, noted 
as ancient by Camden and still among the largest in the 
kingdom. At the present day the local pronunciation 
of the singular of the word " sheep " is " ship," and 
" ton " is the common Saxon termination for the home- 
stead of the yeoman, simply defended by a quickset 
hedge, or " tun." We may picture the settlement on the 
Stour amid the great wilds as consisting of a few huts 
in which the shepherds lived guarded from the wolves 
of the forest and the inroads of hostile men — the Wealas, 
or even other tribes of their own race — by thick mounds 
of trees and high hedges of thorn. They fed their sheep 
in the rich grass-yielding " opens," sheared and washed 
them at the river, sent the wool and the mutton away — 
perhaps to Chipping Camden or Chipping Norton, or 
other near marts where people resorted to " ceapian," 
till the place grew large enough to attract traders to 
itself — and lived a life of primitive simplicity. Then the 
night-silence was broken by the howling of wild beasts 
in the neighboring woods and of dogs within the " tun," 
and from the distant marshes came the booming of the 
bittern and the screeching of the white owl. Day fol- 
lowed day with its monotonous variations incident to 
such pursuits as sheep-farming and to a life in such sur- 
roundings. Rudely clad, roughly housed and having 
little intercourse with the outside world, the shepherds 
were scarcely less wild than was the country around them. 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 43 

In their cabins the one room served for all the purposes 
of the family. Around the fire in the middle of the 
earthen floor father, mother and children slept at night, 
the ground their couch and sheepskins their covering. 
They neither washed nor undressed, and nearly their 
only approach to intellectual life was in the time between 
the dying of the sunlight in the west and the dying of 
the embers on the hearth, when they sang rude melodies, 
sipped home-made mead and propounded such riddles 
as " What does a goose do when standing on one leg ?" 
When the answer came, " Holds the other up," they no 
doubt laughed that full, hearty laugh which seems ever 
to have been characteristic of the English. They ate 
four meals a day and with their heads covered. Time 
was measured, the day by the sun and the month by the 
moon. Their scavengers were kites. In the Wolf-month, 
when the thick fogs and the chill rain-winds swept over 
the land and the frost hardened the ground and the river, 
they kept much at home ; but in the bright Weyd-month 
the children plucked the flowers, the women repaired the 
house and the men were off to their summer toil. They 
were heathen then ; later they were taught to carve the 
cross out of the oak from which they had shaped the 
spear. When Offa, " Rex Anglorum sive Merciorum 
potentissimus," reigned {ante '802), the manor of Shipston 
was granted by Ulhredus, duke of the Wiccians, to the 
priors of Worcester. The connection has never been 
broken ; at the Reformation the rights of the priors were 
taken up by the dean and chapter. 

The prior held his manorial court at a village some 
two miles off, called Blackwell, from a well whose water 
is darkened by some mineral admixture. It was once a 



44 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

considerable place, having, besides other buildings, a 
chapel dedicated to St. Nicholas ; but at one period, his- 
tory informs us, its entire population consisted of six 
men and one maid. From the few facts recorded we 
gather that the rule of the priors was very arbitrary and, 
owing to the many fines exacted from the unfortunate 
townsmen, not much enjoyed. The latter were obliged 
to have their corn ground at a high rate at the prior's 
mill, to pay a fine to every new prior, and a penny — 
called " hedsilver " — for every inhabitant above the age 
of twelve years, every year when the prior held his 
court at Blackwell. About the year 1268, Henry III. 
granted the town a charter for the holding of markets 
and fairs for the sale of cattle, and about 1405 the 
townsmen, exasperated beyond all endurance by the 
fines imposed on them by the priors, broke out into 
open revolt and rioting. They more particularly ob- 
jected to the payment of heriots, a fine taken out of a 
dead man's estate, corresponding somewhat with our 
modern legacy-duty. Several of the leading inhabitants 
went to Worcester to intercede with the prior, and after 
much delay it was decided that on the death of a tenant 
his best animal should go to the prior and his second 
best to the rector of the parish. The tenants were also 
required to spend twenty days in each year in ploughing 
and sowing the prior's land ; also to mow four days, to 
winnow four days and to carry the corn from the manor 
to Wethington. For every beast they sold they paid a 
penny — a sum equal to half a crown of present money. 
Beyond the fact that in the reign of King John some 
dispute arose between the townspeople and the rector 
of Tredington which was settled only by an appeal to 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 45 

Innocent III., nothing of much interest is recorded, save 
the perennial quarrels with the prior of Worcester, till 
after the Reformation. 

During the eighteenth century the town was several 
times and severely visited with small-pox. In 1731 it 
affected 523 persons, of whom 45 died; and in 1744, 
406 persons, of whom 48 died. Under date of 1767 an 
eminent physician in London writes concerning Ships- 
ton: "A poor vagabond was seen in the streets with 
the small-pox upon him ; the people, frightened, took care 
to have him carried to a little house situated upon a hill 
at some distance from the town, providing him with 
necessaries. In a few days the man died ; they ordered 
him to be buried deep in the ground, and the house 
with his clothes to be burnt. The wind, being pretty 
high, blew the smoke upon the houses on one side of 
the town, and a few days after eight persons were slain 
with the small-pox." In 1772 a subscription was col- 
lected to pay for the inoculation of every poor parish- 
ioner, and for one hundred and fifty-seven persons the 
apothecary was paid six shillings a head. When the 
dread of this dire disease passed away under the benign 
influence of Dr. Jenner, a new fear took its place : the 
French became a greater terror than the variola. Eng- 
land looked on aghast at the great Revolution and the 
victories of Bonaparte, but, though the alarm was great, 
the country remained loyal and hopeful. The patriotic 
spirit reached Shipston, and, in spite of the heavy and 
burdensome taxation, in 1798, when Nelson destroyed 
the French fleet at the Nile, the townsmen made a vol- 
untary collection of over sixty-one pounds to assist the 
government. Some gave five guineas, and some gave 



46 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

twopence. Then they formed a volunteer corps, but 
what became of it or what it did no one knows. In 
1803 another company was formed, consisting of four 
officers and about one hundred and forty men. They 
agreed to pay certain fines for misconduct — e. g. y six- 
pence for inattention, a shilling for drunkenness and 
half a crown for fighting ; from which we infer that the 
Shipston men of that day were above all anxious to 
suppress their weakness for pugilistic enterprises. Their 
colors are still preserved, and are occasionally hoisted 
on the church-tower. What duty this corps did history 
has not recorded, but the memory of the noble men 
who volunteered for service in the hour of their coun- 
try's need is still fragrant in the minds of some. 

One of the events in the year is the October fair. 
The picture of the old life is worthy of study. Early in 
the morning the streets are thronged with people from 
the neighboring villages, with farm and domestic ser- 
vants and itinerant showmen. Everything assumes a 
holiday appearance : shopkeepers have their windows 
arrayed with the most tempting attractions ; fruit-stands 
and toy-stalls are set about the streets ; the inns are 
busier than usually ; hawkers cry their wares ; bands 
play, and everybody is awake to the importance of the 
occasion. Down in the Shambles, in front of a black- 
smith's shop and the Crown Inn, a huge fireplace is 
built, before which an ox is roasted whole. Possibly 
this was originally a gift from the lords of the manor, 
the priors of Worcester, but it is now subscribed for by 
the people. Everybody tastes the ox, the slices of 
which are sold at a shilling apiece. In the High street 
— that undefinable place already mentioned — are the 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 47 

shows, the ubiquitous and ever-genuine Tom Thumb, 
the original fat woman and the real red man from the 
wilds of America. Here are the shooting-galleries, where 
the. possibility of a shilling prize is offered at the low 
price of one penny ; also the travelling portrait-taker, 
who will perpetuate any physiognomy for a mere trifle ; 
also the Cheap John, ever stout and sturdy, whose dis- 
interestedness for the good of the purchasing public is 
proverbial ; also the dog-fancier, with his best specimens 
of thoroughbreds. For twopence you can get your 
fortune told by the old woman sitting on yonder door- 
step, and, considering the outlay, you will be satisfied. 
This broad-faced, round-shouldered youth will live with 
you as ploughman, shepherd, groom, or anything else 
you wish, at fair wages and plenty to eat and drink. 
You can take your choice ; the street is full of such, all 
wearing whipcord in their hats and all well recom- 
mended. This hiring feature of the fair gives it the 
name of the " mop " — or, as it was called a century and 
a half since, the " mapp " — and till the middle of the 
afternoon farmers and laborers, mistresses and maids, 
are making, sometimes driving, bargains. The mop was 
a great attraction in bygone days ; an old advertisement 
of 1743 invites the public to come to the hiring of ser- 
vants, " where all gentlemen, dealers and chapmen may 
depend upon good entertainment and encouragement." 
By sunset everybody is merry, and not a few are drunk. 
The taverns do a good business all day, and there are 
dinners at the " George," the " Bell," the " White Horse " 
and the smaller hostelries. Here are lads and lasses arm 
in arm, light and gay; here, boys on the lookout for 
mischief; there, men trying to walk steadily and to sing 



48 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

or whistle, but the goodly potions have disabled them 
from doing either. Yonder is the police-sergeant wheel- 
ing home one of his constables in a'barrow, and followed 
by an admiring throng of rag-tag and bob-tail. Across 
the way are two young men indulging in the supreme 
pleasure of a prize-fight and surrounded by a cheering 
crowd. And the showmen shout, and the drums and 
gongs rattle, and the blazing paraffin-lights hiss and 
splutter, and children blow their penny trumpets, tin 
whistles and horns, and the people laugh and talk, till 
one forgets that this is sleepy and old-fashioned Ships- 
ton. In old times rougher sports prevailed. The fol- 
lowing advertisement referring to this October " roast " 
explains itself: 

« SHIPSTON-ON-STOWER. 

"On Tuesday the 17th of October, 1783, will be played for at Back- 
swords, a purse of Five Guineas, by seven or nine of a side. If no sides 
appear by nine o'clock in the Forenoon, Eight Shillings will be given to 
each man who breaks a head ; Two Shillings and Sixpence to each man 
that has his head broken; to begin playing exactly at nine o'clock." 

On this occasion the Shipston men suffered severely 
at the hands of combatants from Wiltshire, whom they 
nicknamed "Sawnees." Down to within the memory 
of some now living bull-baiting and pigeon-shooting 
took place at these fairs, and cock-fighting was com- 
mon at all times. 

Other festivals were kept besides this one. The Fifth 
of November was not forgot. Christmas was ushered 
in with the merry pealing of bells, the waits and carol- 
singers ; everybody had plum-pudding, if nothing else. 
Some there were who thought that the cattle went down 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 49 

on their knees and the ghosts remained in their tombs 
at the midnight of the Nativity. Strange life! The 
narrow, irregular streets do not belong to the common, 
every-day world. That house in Church street with the 
little bow-windows was once the post-office. Up this 
alley is a small dissenting chapel where the remnant 
of Israel comfort themselves with invectives against 
their neighbors. This dull, odd-looking building is 
the Quakers' meeting-house; only a few Friends re- 
main, but they wear drab and broad brims and are 
still very good folks. That spruce youth with the 
white hat strutting down toward the mill is a visitor 
— perhaps from Birmingham. He is well dressed and 
walks swinging his cane with an air of superiority 
and contempt. He looks down upon place, people and 
everything. The cobble sidewalks, of which the natives 
are justly proud — so proud, indeed, that for fear of wear- 
ing them out they walk in the middle of the street — he 
regards as unworthy of scorn. He is — and he knows 
it — a stranger to this strange world, and in days when 
sawmills abound laughs heartily at the sight of the old- 
fashioned sawyer standing on a log over a pit. But let 
him go, and look at the people themselves. Here is 
your wagoner in his smock-frock, and here your artisan 
in his corduroy breeches and rough-spun jacket, and 
here a gentleman dressed some years behind the times. 
The parson with his white necktie and black frock-coat 
is an incongruity in a place where everything suggests 
the cassocked priest or the cowled monk. The carpen- 
ter, across the way, with the flag basket of tools on 
his back, moving along as though life had no end, was 
once the parish clerk and the parson's right-hand man. 



50 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

The blacksmith, standing by that old broken-down 
wagon, is the great man in the Baptist chapel, and he 
will tell you with some pride that his chapel is " gen- 
eral " and not "particular" — a distinction of great con- 
sequence. The most important people of the place are 
the shopkeepers — a highly-respectable and intelligent 
class whose dignity appears to best advantage in a gig, 
and whose obsequiousness exceeds that of the ordinary 
shopkeeper elsewhere as the humility of a grasshopper 
exceeds in loveliness the pride of a gnat. Society is 
rather select and commendably exclusive, but good 
manners and courtesy are not so general as one might 
judge from the pretensions. Two things most people do 
on Sunday : they go to church or chapel, and they take 
their dinner to the bakehouse. You may see a man on 
a Sabbath morning, just before the bells begin to ring 
for service, carrying a shallow tin pan with a bit of meat 
in the middle surrounded with batter-pudding or peeled 
potatoes. This he leaves at the baker's, and then, taking 
a turn around and looking as innocent and unconscious 
as if he had done a thing no one else did or saw him do, 
he starts off for church, and, though he makes little and 
gets still less out of the sermon, he sings his hymns and 
says his prayers with a devotion to duty highly com- 
mendable. Coming out, he slips off for his dinner, and 
carries it home smoking hot. And then — the only time 
in the week — one of his boys says grace, and all set to 
with a relish. Probably half the people in the place go 
through this programme every Sunday. I believe it is 
not considered the right thing to ask a blessing except 
at this meal ; the others are such that it is not worth 
while to say anything about them. Ruddy cheeks, stal- 



THE VILLAGE ON THE STOUR. 51 

wart limbs and stout forms abound, and testify to the 
healthfulness of the place. The death-rate is low — about 
fourteen per thousand. For a picture of rugged beauty- 
see these four girls, evidently sisters. They appear as 
fresh as the field-daisies in the early morning and as 
gay as the crickets that chirp in the kitchen. Doubt- 
less they can both thump the piano and churn butter, 
play croquet and knit stockings ; and, though they may 
at night stick a pin through the wick of the candle to 
judge by its remaining in or falling out if their lover 
will keep true, they look like sensible and quick-witted 
maidens. 



CHAPTER III. 

©i)e JcUgton UoxinXi &tout 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade 

For talking age and whispering lovers made." 

The country around Shipston-on-Stour is beautifully- 
undulating, its fertile hills and dales producing rich 
grain-harvests and affording abundant pasture for nu- 
merous flocks and herds. The little river on the western 
bank of which the town is built is as pretty and dainty 
a stream as could be found anywhere. Its name is not 
unique : there is a " Stour " in Dorset, Suffolk, Cam- 
bridge and Kent as well as in Warwickshire. The 
word is derived from the Saxon styrian y to " stir " or 
" move," and probably alludes to its rapid course — 
" the swift river." It rises in Oxfordshire, and from 
the Traitor's Ford, where it enters the county of War- 
wick, to Milcote, below Stratford, where it joins the 
Avon, is, owing to its winding course, about thirty 
miles long, though the distance as the crow flies is not 
more than fifteen. Busily it turns the millwheel at Bur- 
mington, flows deeply and quietly past Tidmington and 
Willington, turns the wheel again at Barcheston, gathers 
its strength for the mill at Shipston, and then runs 

52 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 53 

laughingly off in its childish glee till it broadens itself 
as it flows by Honington, and afterward, as though 
half ashamed of its attempt at stateliness, modestly 
narrows for its duty again at Tredington and Harford. 
Bright green meadows and banks where wild flowers 
grow in rich profusion border it on either side ; willows 
cast their shadows upon its sparkling waters ; here and 
there in a deep bend are tall flags and nodding rushes 
and broad-leafed lilies, and many are the quiet nooks 
where the pike and the perch have their haunt. In this 
brook the angler finds his patience and skill rewarded, 
the oarsman discovers water deep and steady enough 
for his skiff, and the schoolboy enjoys his swim and 
catches his minnows unmolested — a merry, light-hearted 
stream in summer, but when swollen by the floods of 
autumn and spring angry and turbulent. Then the 
yellow, foaming waters rush fiercely through the val- 
ley, sweeping across the fields with impetuous haste 
and passionate violence, carrying away gates, hurdles, 
fences, bridges, and whatever else may stand in the 
way, and exciting astonishment in every breast. The 
roads near the brook are impassable at such times, and 
the villagers have perforce to stay at home. Traditions 
of hairbreath escapes and of extraordinary floods, as 
well as of damages and deaths from that cause, are as 
common as are stories of immense beasts fattened in the 
meadow and of heavy fish caught in the brook. The 
dimensions of eels which have been found in Fletcher's 
Pool and the weight of cows which have been fed at 
Wolford are proofs of the fertility of both country and 
river and of the salubrity of air and water. 

There are fishermen hereabouts — few in number, but 



54 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

expert in their art. Most villages near the river have 
their Izaak Walton — an individual, as a rule, more qual- 
ified to quaff ale or cider than to write the Lives of 
divines or such a book as the Compleat Angler. He is 
frequently a decayed tradesman whose love for sport has 
injured his business. Here is such a one on his way 
over the mill-bridge. He is accompanied by a boy who 
carries his can of bait and looks as if he had reached the 
acme of honor. Their path lies across the meadows. 
Let us follow them. The birds and butterflies flit hither 
and thither; the trees and flowers and green sod are 
fresh and bright. Now and then they surprise a squirrel 
or a rabbit in the long wayside grass, but quicker than 
the boy can run it disappears in the blackberry- or hazel- 
bushes or in the deep burrows. The contented murmur 
of the heavily-laden bee as she speeds her way home 
from the honey-sweetened blossoms of the pimpernel, 
the agrimony or the wood-betony ; the quiet, and yet 
striking, whistle of the chiff-chaff; the cries of the shep- 
herds and the anxious bleating of the sheep borne on 
the gentle breeze from far up the river, where the annual 
washing and shearing is being performed ; the singing 
and prattle of village children rambling in the fields or 
by the hedgerows in search of flowers or fledglings, — 
these are among the many sounds which fall upon their 
ears. An hour's walk, and they are on the banks of the 
brook. The high trees cast their shadows almost to the 
other side of the bright, translucent waters, and in the 
quiet deep corner the fisherman prepares to cast his line. 
In silence he makes ready his fishing-tackle, fastening a 
well-scoured worm on the hook, and in a few minutes 
the white-and-green-striped float is bobbing on the tiny 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 55 

wavelets. The boy pulls up what he calls butter reeds 
and eats the soft end. There is no bite ; only once in 
the first quarter of an hour is there the sign of one, and 
then it is only a gudgeon nibbling, and as he turns away 
he passes down the capacious gullet of a monstrous luce 
at that moment looking around for his supper. " Never 
waste a good bait on a poor fish," the angler remarks ; 
and a volume could scarcely impart more wisdom. The 
line is drawn out, fresh tackle is prepared, a frog is put 
on the hook even as though he loved him, and the baited 
barb is dropped silently into the stream. How still is 
everything in that riverside corner ! Even the sobbing 
brook is quiet and the sighing wind is hushed. Beneath 
the thick overhanging boughs of the willows are clouds 
of swarming gnats and flies ; once in a while a brilliant- 
ly-colored dragon-fly whizzes past ; now a rat starts to 
swim across the brook, but disappears in midstream, no 
doubt seized and swallowed by some monster of the 
deep; yonder a bright-hued kingfisher skims the sur- 
face of the water ; and the silence is only made more in- 
tense by the sound of falling water in the distance and 
the occasional tapping of the woodpecker in the thicket. 
How intently both man and boy watch at their shadows' 
length from the brink ! They speak only in whispers. 
They grow pale and nervous with excitement. At last ! 
Hush ! There is a bite, a tug, and the line is whirling 
and rattling over the reel, and across the water the thin, 
gleaming foam is cast up as the captured fish rushes to 
its lair. By and by the line is drawn in, and soon on the 
green sward lies a splendid jack, his sides glittering in 
the sunshine and his eyes darting angry glances. Pike 
thirty-two inches in length and weighing eight and nine 



56 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

pounds have of late years been pulled out of the Stour. 
When the man returns to town, he will sell his fish and 
have a pint or two of extra stout on his luck. 

The scenery around Shipston, though not romantic, is 
picturesque and pleasing. There are low swelling hills 
and broad smiling plains where in the spring meadow, 
field and copse are clothed in vesture of living green, 
and in the autumn in robes of red and gray and brown. 
Standing on one of the many rising grounds, the spec- 
tator beholds the country rolling in waves of quiet, 
happy beauty. Farms and hamlets nestling among the 
trees ; roads running hither and thither, now across open 
fields, and now between high hedges where grow the 
crab and the may, here through the greenwood, and 
there winding up the hillside ; church-towers and spires 
rising from the heart of some rural Eden — perhaps in a 
valley-depth of charming grace, perhaps on an elevation 
of commanding loveliness ; quaint, restful, homelike 
mansions peeping out of sylvan retreats and surrounded 
by wide parks within whose glades and beneath whose 
broad-spreading oaks feed the antlered deer and the 
striped Alderney cattle, — such are among the objects 
which attract his attention and excite his admiration. 
The views from Brailes Hill and from Tredington Hill 
are for gentle, suggestive beauty and exquisite natural 
charm all that can be desired, while from Edgehill, a 
little out of sight of Shipston, is a landscape which is 
unrivalled in England and unexcelled in the world. 

Travel in the olden time was a very different affair 
from travel in the nineteenth century. Not only was 
the railway not invented, but the roads were neither 
good nor safe and the conveyances were unwieldy and 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 57 

uncomfortable. In rainy weather no vehicle could be 
dragged through the deep mud ; even on horseback the 
journey was not easy, while on foot it was tiring and 
difficult. Deep rivers had bridges over them, but shal- 
low streams were forded except in time of flood, when 
the passage was impossible. Every manor or parish was 
obliged to keep its own roads in repair, but no one saw 
that the work was done, and parsimonious squires and 
vestries therefore did as little as possible. In the Middle 
Ages people left money for the repairing and making of 
highways, and they who did so — even later by the Re- 
formers themselves — were esteemed to have done much 
to ensure their salvation. But mud, slush and swollen 
streams in rainy weather and unimaginable depths of 
sand and dust in dry weather were not the only incon- 
veniences. The danger from highwaymen was ever 
present, and centuries passed before such robbery was 
suppressed. In one age it was the retainers and servants 
of the baron through whose estate the road ran that 
sought to lighten the burden of the stranger : perchance 
the baron himself helped in the work ; then outlaws and 
professional bandits did the same thing ; and thus from 
time immemorial till near our own day the Jack Shep- 
pards and Dick Turpins levied mail of the passers-by. 
In this way the men of Sherwood, whom romance has 
made virtuous, got their wealth and made merry, and, 
though we are told that the brave Robin spared the poor 
and lay in wait only for rich abbots and wealthy mer- 
chants, there is too strong a suspicion of business about 
this discrimination to suffer one to think much of his 
great-heartedness. Down in secluded hollows in the 
forest or the glen or by the stream was done the deed 



58 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

which made even strong men dread travelling and made 
women shiver with fear. Occasionally the robbery was 
committed in gentler and more legal form. Heavy toll 
was exacted for crossing a bridge or passing through a 
town or by a castle, or a still heavier fine for having in- 
curred the suspicion of being a spy or a foe. As a man 
cannot help other people's suspicions, and as there was 
no available appeal from the bench of country justice, 
the traveller was lucky if he escaped with half his goods 
and less than a day in the stocks. Dangers such as 
these made it necessary for travellers to unite in com- 
panies large enough for self-defence, and every wise man 
before he left his own roof-tree for a distance paid his 
debts, bade farewell to his friends and disposed of his 
family and property with far more care than is displayed 
in these degenerate days by many who are on the eve of 
taking their journey to that bourne from whence no trav- 
eller returns. As an illustration of the perils of the road 
the following from a newspaper presumably of about the 
year 1770 is interesting: "On Thursday night about 
eight o'clock Mr. Thomas Pratt, farmer and corn-dealer, 
of Shipston, was" stopped between Newbold and Tred- 
ington, on his return from Stratford, by a footpad, who 
rushed from the roadside and knocked him off his horse 
by striking him several times with a hedge-stake or 
heavy bludgeon. The villain then knelt on Mr. Pratt's 
breast and took from him a pocket-book containing Strat- 
ford bank-bills to the amount of ^99. Mr. Pratt was 
found lying on the ground about a quarter of an hour 
afterward very much cut and bruised about the head, two 
of his teeth having been knocked out by the blows. The 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 59 

robber was a stout, lusty man." There is no record of 
his capture. 

Travel a long way back was done mostly on horseback 
or on foot, though there were wagons and carts used for 
the purpose. The first coach seen in England was about 
the year 1553, and another hundred and twenty years 
passed before stage-coaches began to run ; they were not 
received with much favor. In 1673 a treatise was published 
in London by " A Lover of his Country, and Well-wisher 
to the Prosperity both of the King and Kingdoms," in 
which were used many elaborate arguments and violent 
tirades against them. " These coaches and caravans," 
said the writer, " are one of the greatest mischiefs that 
hath happened of late years to the kingdom, mischiev- 
ous to the publick, destructive to trade, and prejudicial 
to lands." He laments the decay of good horsemanship 
which would follow if everybody rode to London in a 
coach. He calculates that a stage-coach from York, 
Chester or Exeter would have forty horses on the jour- 
ney to the capital and carry eighteen passengers a week. 
In the whole year it would carry about eighteen hundred 
and seventy-two. Supposing they were returning pas- 
sengers, there would be nine hundred and thirty-six, and 
for these forty horses would be sufficient ; but if people 
travelled in the good old-fashioned way, then at least 
five hundred horses would be required for this work. 
The use of so many horses would give employment to 
many who were by the stage-coach thrown out of work, 
such as cloth-workers, drapers, tailors, saddlers, tanners, 
curriers, shoemakers, spurriers, lorimers and fellmakers. 
The inns also suffer, for the stage-coach stops at only a 
few; but when gentlemen travelled on horseback, ac- 



60 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

companied, as they usually were, by three or four ser- 
vants, they stopped at any and as often as they liked, 
and thus encouraged trade. Farmers will be ruined, he 
says, by the stage-coach; for how can they dispose of 
their hay, straw and horse-corn ? Moreover, the influ- 
ence on health would be bad : men called out of their 
beds before daylight, hurried from place to place till far 
on into the night, in the summer stifled with heat and 
choked with dust, in the winter starving and freezing 
with cold or choked with filthy fog, obliged to ride all 
day with strangers and with sick, ancient and diseased 
persons and young children crying, poisoned with fetid 
breaths and crippled by the crowd of boxes and bundles. 
Besides all these troubles, there were the accidents aris- 
ing from rotten coaches and foul roads. In short, the 
writer is fully convinced that if stage-coach travelling 
becomes popular the country will go to ruin. Had he 
lived to see the railway, he would have been bereft of 
his senses. Had he lived to see the day when gallows 
should not be erected by the highway, nor suicides 
buried in the cross-roads, nor ghosts haunt the uncanny 
corners, he would have given up his spirit in despair. 

The roads around Shipston are interesting. The Foss- 
way, an ancient Roman thoroughfare running in an al- 
most straight line across the country from Lincoln to 
Bath, passes the town to the north-west at a distance of 
two or three miles. It is a well-kept though rather un- 
frequented road. Once in a while the pedestrian meets 
a gig or a wagon, but one might go from the cross-roads 
between Tredington and Newbold to Stretton and see no 
one. In the hedges dog-roses grow in early summer 
and large luscious blackberries in the autumn. Birds 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 6 1 

and ploughboys here as elsewhere whistle and sing with 
varying sweetness and strength ; the " Tally-ho !" of the 
huntsman, the baying of the hounds and the sharp crack 
of the whip are sometimes heard, as are also the lowing 
of cattle, the bleating of flocks and the cries and shouts 
of laborers; but the impression one has in traversing 
the Fossway — so far, at least, as man is concerned — is 
that of loneliness and lifelessness. It was a busy road 
when Roman legions moved through the country ; now 
it is the retreat of the health-seeker, the lover and the 
antiquary. 

There is a characteristic lane running from Tysoe by 
Tredington, Honington and Barcheston to Willington. 
Such roads are peculiarly English. In places the grass 
grows from hedge to hedge. A little beyond Honington 
it threads its way through a long avenue of tall, stately 
elms. Near Barcheston it crosses an open field on a 
rising ground from which a good view of Shipston may 
be had — the still place with its square church-tower 
snug down in the hollow. At Barcheston one can turn 
aside to the village, consisting of an ancient church, the 
parsonage, a mill, a farmhouse, and possibly two cottages, 
and take a footpath across the fields to Willington — a 
walk almost as pleasant as the one from Tredington to 
Blackwell by the high hedge. 

The turnpike-roads are, of course, somewhat busier, 
but scarcely less attractive. There are footpaths by the 
side of the way, hedges and trees for shade and here and 
there a rustic seat where the tired traveller may sit and 
rest. The ride from Shipston to Stratford is delightful, 
and, indeed, one could walk the ten miles without noti- 
cing the distance, so velvety the turf, so firm the path, so 



62 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

charming the country. That to Banbury is almost as 
pleasant; the one to Moreton-in-the-Marsh, wilder and 
more secluded ; and that to Chipping Norton, more ro- 
mantic. This last-named road leads by the new ceme- 
tery, the ancient Tidmington and the once-famous but 
now deserted hostelry at Chapel-House, some ten miles 
from Shipston. 

The district is dotted with villages and hamlets, many 
of them small and secluded, but all ancient and interest- 
ing. A few minutes' walk over the mill-bridge and 
across the meadows brings one to Barcheston — or Bar- 
son, as it was anciently, and is still locally, pronounced. 
In Henry IV., Part II., Act V., Scene 3, we read of 
" Goodman Puff of Barson," which some have thought 
was a corruption of Barton, the village on the Heath, 
but which others — perhaps more correctly — have iden- 
tified with this place. It is of great antiquity, and was 
once of sufficient importance to give its name to the 
hundred to which it belonged. In Doomsday the place 
is called Berricestone. In the reign of Henry VII. a 
wealthy merchant, William Willington by name, pulled 
down the few houses which the village then contained 
and built a spacious mansion, turning over five hundred 
acres of the land into a park. He died in 1563, and in 
a small chapel of the parish church he and his wife lie 
in effigy on an altar-tomb. The monument has been 
much mutilated. The little church, dedicated to St. 
Martin, was built in 128 1. It is of Early English style 
and contains some brasses, an ancient font, an old black- 
lettered copy of Erasmus's Paraphrases — which was for- 
merly chained to the bench — and in the tower a priest's 
chamber. This is said to be a good specimen of the 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 63 

domus inchisi. Towers were once frequently used for 
residence. What a weird sort of home ! Jackdaws 
chattering among the bells, ghosts lurking in the dark 
corners, the loneliness calling up legends and creating 
fancies of soul-subduing and mind-bewildering power, 
and the wind, as it swept against the buttressed walls 
and through the narrow loopholes, now sobbing and 
sighing like poor souls in agony and now roaring and 
raging, furious as the storm-waves of the sea or the 
shrieks of despairing demons ! Dismal, dull, melan- 
choly ! There are three bells, which are popularly sup- 
posed to ring this melody as they chime for service : 

" * Long-tailed sow, 
Where be'st going ?' 
• To th' bean-mow.' 
' May I go wi' thee ?' 
•No; not now.' " 

The tower leans perceptibly. On the south side of the 

church is a curious spout — two arms extended holding 

a bucket or tub to catch the water. The building has 

accommodation for about a hundred and fifty people, 

and a whisper can be heard in it from one end to the 

other. Here survives the time-honored parish clerk, a 

worthy man who for many years has rung the bells, 

dusted the pews, waited upon the parson and led the 

choir. Some of his honors have been taken away : 

there was once a time when the parish clerk read the 

first lesson and gave out the psalm. 

The greater part of the congregation live at a hamlet 

about a mile across the fields from the church. The 

intervening ground was in the park, long since broken 
5 



64 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

up, and to the place where the villagers were removed 
William Willington gave his own name. A simple 
place is that Willington, without either a public-house 
or a dissenter. A few cottages scattered along the ir- 
regularly-laid-out lanes, in which shepherds, carters and 
farm-laborers live, a little shop where a few necessaries, 
such as needles and thread, sugar and soap, can be 
bought, a farmhouse, — that is all. The place is health- 
ful: there is no excitement to injure the inhabitants. The 
geese eating the grass by the roadside in front of the 
houses take their time and scarcely notice the passers- 
by. The pigs and the dogs grow fat and indolent in 
no time. The old folks take snuff and drink small beer 
and sit for hours in solemn vacuity of thought. When 
the annual wake is held, the people dress in their gayest 
and best, a fiddler from Shipston scrapes music for the 
dancers and everybody makes merry. At Christmas 
most of the natives have a bit of roast beef and a 
bouncing plum-pudding of approved weight and color ; 
at Easter, a chine of bacon — perhaps a survival of the 
old custom of eating pork at that season to show con- 
tempt for the Jews. Long ago the villagers went to the 
bull-baitings and cock-fights at Shipston, and some of 
the ancients will justify the former sport on the ground 
that baiting made the bull's flesh wholesome. An old 
pastime in this county was the " grinning-match." In a 
newspaper of 171 1 it is said that the Warwickshire men 
were as famous for their grins as the Kentish men were 
for their tails. Grinning is better than crying, and at 
these matches a substantial prize was given to the best 
competing grinner. Whistling in unison was also prac- 
tised, but the tendency to laugh at a row of screwed-up 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 65 

mouths was so great that a good bout was seldom 
secured. 

A little farther up the river is Tidelmington — or, as it 
is now called, Tidmington — a church, a mansion, a 
farmhouse and a few cottages. The last parish clerk 
here served for thirty-one years — an old-fashioned type 

" Who thought no song was like a psalm, 
No music like a bell." 

Not long since, he was carried to his grave by four of 
his grandchildren, and his office is now declared obso- 
lete. This parish borders on that of Todenham. There 
the ancient custom of " beating the bounds " is still kept 
up. This in days gone by was generally observed 
throughout the country, and consisted of an annual 
procession or ambulation around the bourns or bounda- 
ries of the parish by the rector, churchwardens, prom- 
inent parishioners, meresmen and young people. The 
leading metes and points having been ascertained, they 
were severally indicated to the village boys and im- 
pressed upon their memories by such means as throw- 
ing one of them into the water, giving another a sound 
thrashing or bumping a third against a wall, tree, post, 
or any other hard substance near at hand. This was 
supposed to fasten the fact of the parish limits upon the 
juvenile intelligence, and took the place of the ordnance 
map. At Todenham, if a stranger happens to be going 
along the road while the procession is passing, the peo- 
ple leave off beating the bounds and cudgel him instead. 
Beyond Tidmington is Burmington, and beyond that 
again is Little Wolford, an ancient hamlet lying off the 
highway and containing an interesting mansion, partly 



66 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

of thirteenth-century date, of which the dining-hall, 
buttery-hatch and minstrels' gallery have been pre- 
served. Cherrington, Stourton and Sutton are not far 
distant. In this same direction, seven or eight miles 
from Shipston, a little off the highway to Chapel-House, 
is an ancient stone circle similar to that at Stonehenge, 
known as the Rollendrych, Rowldrich or, more com- 
monly, Rollright Stones. There are about sixty stones, 
some buried beneath the turf, others less than and some 
about four feet above the ground, and one over seven 
feet high, arranged in a ring thirty-five yards in diam- 
eter, in the middle of which is a clump of firs. Outside 
of the circle is the King Stone, eight feet high, and in 
another direction till lately were the Whispering Knights, 
five stones leaning against one another, the highest of 
which was nearly eleven feet. Local tradition has for 
centuries held that the stones are the transformed 
bodies of an army. A certain king of the neighboring 
part of the country, the story says, desiring to be ruler 
of all England, marched with his men across the coun- 
try, and when on this spot exclaimed, 

" If Long Compton I can see, 
King of England I shall be." 

Three or four steps farther he would have seen the 
village he desired, but at that moment a wise woman 
cried, 

" Move no more ! Stand fast, Stone ! 
King of England thou shalt be none !" 

and he and his knights and soldiers were instantly 
turned into stone. Superstition kept the place from 
being meddled with. A farmer once carried away one 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 67 

of the Whispering Knights to make a stepping-stone 
over his brook, but his rest was so disturbed by tor- 
menting spirits that he returned it to its place. Five 
horses were needed to cart it away ; one sufficed to 
bring it back again. The nature of the stones proves 
that they were originally brought from a long distance, 
thus suggesting anew the mooted question of mechan- 
ical arts among the ancients. Camden thinks the stones 
commemorate a Danish victory; Plot, that they mark 
the place where kings were elected and crowned ; but 
most authorities regard them as sepulchral. Some have 
held that the circle is part of the outer boundary of a 
Celtic barrow and is at least two thousand years old. 
Two hundred yards east of the King Stone is a bank 
running north and south, where the exposed soil is of a 
darker color than the surrounding earth and covers the 
remains of men and horses. Various relics have been 
found close by, and everything seems to support the 
conclusion that here the people long ago buried their 
dead, and that the stones remaining formed the temple 
used for ancestor-worship. The Whispering Knights 
are possibly the remains of an altar, though the upper 
slab has been removed, and the King Stone may have 
served either as a pedestal for an idol or as a mark to 
guide worshippers from the opposite hills and the val- 
ley beneath to the temple. Within the circle itself no re- 
mains of bodies have been found, and we may reason- 
ably conjecture that this was the sanctuary, the place 
where the worship — whether of the sun or of other 
forces of nature, or of ancestors — was offered up, around 
which, as in our modern churchyards, the dead were 
interred. The weird grandeur and the impressive si- 



68 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

lence speak of the mutability of human affairs and the 
transitoriness of human life. Not a name abides ; priests 
and people, mourners and mourned, have passed away. 
The sacrificial fires are unkindled, the hymns to the 
gods unsung. Nothing remains of the temple so lone 
and grand in the wilderness, open to the winds and 
rains of heaven, but the gray and lichen-stained stones 
and an entrancing and strange mystery. How modern 
the oldest church in the land seems beside those rude 
and ancient relics ! 

About five miles from the Long Compton which the 
traditionary king desired to see is Compton Wingate, 
also called Compton-in-the-Hole because seated in a 
deep valley. Close by is Hook Norton, a picturesque 
village once held by a countess of Salisbury by the ten- 
ure of " carving before the king, and to have the knife 
with which she carved." Camden, writing in the reign 
of James I., says that the inhabitants of this place were 
formerly such clowns that " to be born at Hook Norton 
became a proverb to denote rudeness and ill-breeding." 
In his day, as at the present time, the people of the 
neighborhood commonly called it " Hog's Norton, where 
the pigs play upon organs," alluding, it is said, to a na- 
tive who aspired to be a musician. 

On the opposite side of Shipston, two miles toward 
Stratford-on-Avon, is Tredington, once the great eccle- 
siastical centre of the district. No less than ten chapel- 
ries in the largest and richest parish in the diocese of 
Worcester owed allegiance to the great church of St. 
Gregory. The church is of magnificent proportions and 
noble architecture. Norman pillars supporting pointed 
arches and the clerestory separate the nave from the 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 69 

aisles ; the rood-screen between the nave and the chan- 
cel remains ; the seats and the pulpit are of carved Per- 
pendicular work, and at the west end is a long low gal- 
lery running the whole breadth of the church. The 
roof is flat and open, the wall timbers resting on gro- 
tesque heads, chiefly of animals resembling bears. In 
the aisle is a trefoliated piscina ; near to it is an old lec- 
tern, to which is chained a copy of Jewel's Apology, and 
in the floor, close by, is a large stone on which may be 
discerned the carved outlines of a chalice and a book. 
It is probably the monument of a priest, but no inscrip- 
tion remains. In the north aisle is an aumbry, square, 
with a wooden shelf. The chancel has among other 
tablets and slabs two fine brasses of the fifteenth century. 
The walls were once covered with painted scenes from 
Scripture and legend, but in 1841 they were scraped 
away ; nor did the authorities follow the example of the 
Reformers and place texts from the Bible in their stead. 
The noble tower contains a good peal of bells, mostly 
of seventeenth-century make. On some of them are 
inscriptions, such as " Drawe neareto God " and " Gloria 
Deo in excelsis ; Jesu be our speed." The view from 
the parapet is very fine. Thirty years ago the choir was 
accompanied by a flute, clarionet, fiddle, base-violin and 
other musical instruments. There was singing in those 
days — part-singing of an elaborate nature. How the 
tuning of the instruments just before the chant or the 
hymn was begun used to echo through the dark nave 
and aisles ! and when all was ready, how lustily and 
heartily the sacred minstrelsy poured out its melody and 
song ! In the churchyard — so full of graves that it is 
much higher than the floor of the church and the out- 



70 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

side roadway — is an elegant cross of fourteenth-century 
work, nearly thirteen feet high. Among the many 
quaint inscriptions on the tombstones are the following : 

MARY HALL (1682). 
" Here lyes that duste which did enthrone 
A sovle soe piovs soe divine, 
That not a daye to her was given 
But shee advanced a step towrds heaven j 
Whither shee now is fled to bee 
Partaker of a blest eternity." 

LAWRANDS SMITH (1680). 

" All heads like mine must surely come 
With natur's pasport to the tomb ; 
Like vagabonds on earth they must 
Returne vnto their native duste." 

The equivocal character of this latter one is matched by 
another, which, referring to the departed, speaks of 

" His spirit sinking to its rest." 

The district was once celebrated for its parish clerks. 
A noble specimen held office here till within some twenty 
years. He succeeded his father — indeed, I believe the 
position was in the family for three generations and up- 
ward of a century. He knew the services by heart and 
as a psalm-singer was unrivalled. For a crinclepouch — 
that is to say, for a sixpence — he would show the church 
to visitors and tell the unked stories of its nooks and 
corners. What he did not know about ghosts was not 
worth knowing — not, as he used to say, that he had ever 
seen one himself or anybody else that ever had, but he 
had heard people who knew people that had heard of 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. yi 

others who had, and surely that was evidence enough. 
When in his desk below the rector's, during the service 
he kept one eye on the book and the other on the con- 
gregation, as much to look out for strangers and mark 
new hats and coats as to preserve order and decorum. 
Prayers ended and sermon begun, he would take out his 
red silk handkerchief — used only on Sundays and at 
Christmas and Easter — and throw it over his head (the 
church had draughts) and compose himself contentedly 
with a done-my-duty sort of air in a corner of his box- 
like desk to listen to the discourse. That he did not 
sleep was evident from the fact that he could tell what 
the sermon was about ; which was more than most of 
the congregation could do. He was a good old fellow, 
faithful, loyal and earnest, and at the annual tithe-dinner 
— always held at the White Lion — he sang his song, 
cracked his jokes and drank his ale with a good courage. 
Both parson and farmers liked him, but then those were 
wicked old times when people loved their beer and 
thought they would go to heaven. 

Across the road is the rectory, a new building repla- 
cing one of great age. On the opposite side of the 
churchyard are the stocks and the whipping-post, long 
since disused, but in good preservation. The village 
consists of small, irregularly-built stone houses, many 
of them of considerable antiquity. Its life has departed; 
a highway inn and a wheelwright's shop are the only 
signs of trade. There are no dissenters, but not many 
years since the churchwardens were asked to weigh a 
woman against the Bible to prove to her neighbors that 
she had not a familiar spirit. In the old register we read 
of payments being made to parishioners for killing ob- 



72 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

noxious animals ; thus, adders were valued at twopence 
each, urchins at fourpence and foxes at a shilling. Of 
late years sparrows' heads were paid for by the church- 
wardens at the rate of three farthings a dozen. In 17 14 
a man was paid half a crown for " whipping ye dogs out 
of ye church." Curious customs prevailed here, as else- 
where in the neighborhood. Two or three evenings 
every week during Advent the bells were rung to herald 
in with joyous peals the merry Christmastide. The 
" passing-bell," formerly tolled at the dying of a par- 
ishioner to warn his friends and neighbors of their own 
mortality and to urge them to pray that he might find 
mercy with God, now rings immediately after the death 
— two strokes for a woman, twice repeated, and three 
strokes for a man, thrice repeated, followed by a long 
toll ; and as the solemn tones are wafted over the village 
and fields the housewife will stay her hand and the 
ploughman will lift his hat and utter a prayer that God 
will keep them in the dark hour. At some places in the 
diocese a muffled peal was rung on Innocents' Day in 
token of sorrow for the babes of Bethlehem, and an un- 
muffled peal as a thanksgiving for the escape of the infant 
Saviour. Among the payments made the rector were 
Easter offerings, three or four pence for each communi- 
cant. Householders also paid the smoke-penny and the 
garden-penny, and the tribute of " saddle-silver " was 
made to the prior of Worcester for the privilege of rid- 
ing on horseback through the ecclesiastical estate. In 
Saxon times the place belonged to Eanberht, duke of 
the Wiccians, and at the Conquest it passed into the 
possession of the bishop of Worcester. In the four- 
teenth century Robert Walden, of Warwick, founded a 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 73 

chantry in the parish church. Until the Reformation 
the manor remained mostly in ecclesiastical hands; it 
was then confiscated and given to the earl of Warwick. 
Darlingscote and Blackwell, two tiny hamlets, still be- 
long to the parish; Armscott, formerly Edmundscote, 
and Newbold were cut off about fifty years since. In 
the latter village, three miles and a half from Shipston, 
on the highway to Stratford, is a neat little church dedi- 
cated to St. David, and containing in the chancel two 
painted lancets less in size than, but superior in delicacy 
of coloring and beauty of design to, even the well-exe- 
cuted eastern window containing the scene of the Last 
Judgment. On the Foss road, to the east of the high- 
way between Tredington and Newbold, about a mile 
from either place, is Halford, noted for the beauty of its 
bowling-green. Here, in 1608, the rector of Treding- 
ton, then recently appointed, was " married openlie in 
the church." Throughout the reign of Elizabeth cleri- 
cal marriages, though permitted, were discountenanced, 
and were performed in secret. In the reign of Edward 
I. part of the manor was made over by Henry de Hal- 
ford to a man named Bregge on condition of his supply- 
ing thirty-six people on Christmas Day with a loaf of 
bread, a herring and a flagon of beer. The place shared 
with Stratford the honor of a poet. There are poets of 
various sorts. William Shakespeare, the actor, was of 
one kind ; George Grainger, the parson of Halford, was 
of another. He was presented to the living in 1659, and 
commemorates his predecessor as follows : 



" Here lyes a modell of the Pastour pure, 
Described by Paul, who undertook the cure 



74 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Of congregation all, and gave example 
From Timothy and Titus large and ample ; 
He was no fighter, drunkard, nor yong scholar, 
Not avaricious nor o'ercome with choller." 

To his own ministry, just beginning, he thus refers : 

" Oh, that this Pastour and this people too 
In apostolique rules would dwell ; 
Whatever Sodom and Gomorrah doo, 
Our little Zoar shall fare well." 

In this church there is a squint in the wall behind the 
reading-desk, so that formerly the people in the south 
aisle could see the priest at the altar ; Chipping Norton 
also has one. In many ancient chancels there is a low 
side-window commonly called a leper-window, through 
which lepers or sick persons during the time of plague 
might witness the mass and receive communion without 
contaminating the congregation. Some, however, think 
these windows were lychnoscopes, and that their object 
was to allow the light of the lamp burning in the sanc- 
tuary to fall on the graves in the churchyard. There 
was such a window in Tredington church, but it is now 
stopped up. 

We may not wander farther through this pleasing 
neighborhood. Places as interesting as any we have 
spoken of abound. Ilmington, Ebrington and Blockley 
have each a story which we may not in this place 
tell. 

The peculiarities of dialect are many, and, though 
there is a decided approach to the general English 
tongue, many of the common people still retain the 
lingual idiosyncrasies of their fathers. One of the 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 75 

leading features of the dialect is the lengthening of 
the vowels. This is done so as to give them a double 
quantity, and frequently to cause them to be repeated 
as in a diaeresis. For instance, the following are com- 
mon examples: "don't" is pronounced "doon't;" 
"won't,'' "woon't;" "like," "Hike;" "time," "tiime." 
" Come" runs " coom," like the word " coo ;" and 
"there" becomes "theer," like "thee" with an r. 

Another leading characteristic is the general drawl. 
The words are long drawn out, fairly enunciated, but 
uttered very slowly. The pitch of voice is high and 
the tone loud; both painfully so. The sentence is 
more or less inflected, at times running into a dis- 
agreeable sort of rhythm. The aspirate is, of course, 
utterly neglected. Occasionally it is prefixed to a word 
to which it does not belong, but not often, for that would 
need effort ; and the prolonged drawl precludes anything 
like effort. There appears to be no difficulty in the way 
of their clearly understanding one another, even in words 
where the spiritus asper seems to an« educated ear abso- 
lutely necessary. They neither notice its presence nor 
miss its absence. The liquids are still clear, making a 
remarkable contrast to the London speech. On the 
whole, there is a harshness, a barbarism, which makes 
the tongue the reverse of attractive. 

The grammatical blunders are many. The nomina- 
tive and objective cases are freely transposed. " Hur 
giived hit to I " is the common style. Instead of " are," 
the use of "be" is general; e. g., "You beean't ah 
gooin ;" " I bee goood ;" " Him bee ah stunner." The 
number of verbs is woefully disregarded ; e. g. } " I 
cooms," "we is" or "us is," and "him up and hit 



%6 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

he." This last example we heard given " 'Im hup 
and 'it 'ee." 

There are not many words peculiar to the dialect. 
They use " gammy " for " bad," " ship " for the singu- 
lar of " sheep," " scrimmut " for a piece of anything, 
and "lissom" for "lithesome" or nimble. A fence is 
called a " mound ;" a heap or rick of hay, a " mow ;" 
and a master, a " gaffer." The Transatlantic " ain't " is 
supplied by the equally unpleasant " ahn't or " han't." 
Most people use the word " Protestant " as descriptive 
only of the Church of England ; what they do in par- 
ishes where the parson repudiates that honored title we 
do not know. 

The vocabulary in the use of country-people is small, 
their power to grasp ideas very slight, and hence the 
difficulty in communicating thought. The clergy, who 
as a class are by no means apt in the pulpit, have their 
troubles increased on this account. They cannot come 
down to the rude and narrow colloquial speech of their 
rustic parishioners. The dissenting preacher, being taken 
from a lower class and having an inferior education, can. 
To imagine an Oxford don placed in charge of a re- 
mote country parish preaching according to the bar- 
barous dialect of his people is to imagine that which 
is absurd and unreasonable. An eagle and a crow or 
a nightingale and a sparrow could as well hold com- 
munication. Thus the very scholarship of the English 
clergy sometimes becomes a hindrance to the Church, 
though with the spread of education this difficulty will 
disappear. 

The position and the influence of the country clergy 
are, on the whole, unique in Christendom. Nowhere 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 77 

are they more respected ; nowhere are they better pro- 
vided for. If there is a nicer house set in prettier 
grounds than any other in the village, that is the rec- 
tor's. The love which his people will have for him will 
depend largely upon the manner in which he fulfils his 
sacred functions. If careless, worldly, unsympathetic 
or indifferent, they will speak against him without qual- 
ification ; if, on the other hand, he is faithful and loving, 
they will yield him an obedience and an affection know- 
ing no restraints. Clergymen differ. We heard one 
pastor — who probably had had some dispute with his 
congregation — preach upon the Israelites asking Samuel 
for a king. It was not wrong, he said, for them to de- 
sire a king, since a king was a necessity to every well- 
constituted nation : " Honor the king " was the apostolic 
injunction. No; the wrong was committed in their 
wishing to set aside their good old clergyman, Samuel. 
The pathos passed into vigor when he concluded, " My 
friends, never oppose your clergyman." The sermon 
was prosy and soporific, the season was that of making 
the hay, and, even if his hearers had the presumption 
to understand, it is probable that the exhortation fell 
upon hard hearts. People seldom repent when minis- 
ters scold, and a scolding minister indicates an unsatis- 
factory parish and shortcomings on both sides. 

It was our good fortune to have come into contact 
with one clergyman who brought vividly to mind 
Chaucer's and Cowper's description of a good pastor. 
His influence upon his parish and neighborhood was as 
that of the sun in its quiet, steady round of work. The 
people loved him ; all men admired him. There were 
in him the gentleness and holiness, the churchliness and 



78 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

poetry, of a George Herbert, and the forty years of his 
ministry in the one parish had made it as a garden of 
the Lord. One summer evening we drove to his church 
and attended service — a plain little church, but at this 
time filled with worshippers. Before the evensong be- 
gan a woman was churched at the altar-rails ; the office 
was read distinctly, and the congregation joined in the 
responses. A choir of girls in white led the people in 
singing ; and lusty singing it was, such as made one's 
heart glad. In the fields around the church the red- 
brown wheat rustling in the evening breeze and softly 
lightened up by the sinking sun made a picture never to 
be forgotten. After the third collect a young preacher 
went up into the pulpit and delivered a sermon upon 
the first verse of the Nunc Dimittis. Before he had 
finished, the twilight darkened, so that the unlighted 
church was filled with gloom. After the sermon, in the 
night-shadows, the aged rector read the Litany most 
impressively. The twinkling taper at his stall was the 
only light in the church. Then the people rose and 
sang the hymn, " Sun of my soul." They knew it by 
heart and needed no book, while the ever-deepening 
shadows added emphasis to the line, " It is not night if 
thou be near." 

It is the work of such men as this worthy rector 
which makes the Church dear to the hearts of the 
people. We heard something of disestablishment, but 
always as a remote possibility. Some country-people 
asked us who would support the clergyman in such an 
event taking place. " We could not," they added, " and 
the result would be that we should soon become hea- 
then. v As the Church does not receive one penny from 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 79 

the State from one year's end to the other, and as she 
was never established by the State, being, indeed, some 
centuries older, it is difficult to understand what is 
meant by disestablishment, unless it be confiscation. 
Such a robbery is possible, but it is only likely when 
Socialism has so prevailed as to take away all rights of 
personal property. The tithes and the endowments are 
not the gifts of the nation at large, but the bequests of the 
faithful of past ages. They belong to the individual 
parish, even as buildings and trusts do in America ; if 
taken away, then schools, colleges, hospitals and all 
endowed institutions are likewise liable. 

Oftentimes in this district of which we are writing the 
people have real humor — not the wit of the Irish, but 
the rarer and higher gift of a merry, lightsome dispo- 
sition. Here and there a delightful stupidity is shown. 
The story is told of two men disputing over the pur- 
chase of pigs. One believed in buying large ones ; the 
other, in buying small ones. The question turned upon 
the quantity which the latter would eat. It seemed that 
the one who opposed their purchase had once bought 
one, intending to fatten it, but, though it ate a bucketful 
of meal at a time, it would not grow. One morning the 
man carried out a bucketful of food, and after the little 
pig had swallowed it all he picked it up and put it into 
the same bucket, and the little wretch did not fill it 
half full ! 

Some years ago a man and his wife belonging to a 
village close by Shipston resolved to go to America ; but 
when at Liverpool they saw the great sea, the good fel- 
low exclaimed, " Let's go back, Betty, till the flood's 
gone down." This was the contrary of the impression 



80 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

which was made upon another man when he took his 
sweetheart to spend a day at the seaside, and arrived just 
in time for the ebb tide : " Wy, Ann, danged if they 
bain't a-lettin t' watter off!" One of the sayings in the 
country is, " If you only wait, you may carry water in a 
sieve." — " How long ?" you ask. — " Till it freezes," is the 
triumphant reply. Some one told us of a woman who 
had six children, the eldest only seven years old. She 
was very careful about the Saturday-night scrub, in ac- 
cordance with the custom of this neighborhood, and we 
asked if she put them all in a big tub together. " Oh 
no," was the reply; "she washes them as she can catch 
them." The picture of a mother running after her little 
ones in that fashion struck us as highly amusing. 

A talkative old fellow was speaking of his wife in 
terms of lavish praise. She was the best this and the 
best that the world had ever known. She had a con- 
science, was industrious, thrifty and tidy, and, in short, 
to use his expression, was an uncommonly good woman. 
Above all, she was ever ready to help her neighbors. 
As he paused for breath another garrulous individual 
abruptly injected the observation, possibly to confirm the 
story of her many virtues, " Yes ; and if there is any 
sore throat around, she is bound to take it." 

In old time the dry humor of the people was fre- 
quently expressed in the sculptured faces in the churches. 
In one porch we saw a figure in which the hands were 
drawn over the stomach and the face had the woebegone 
expression which follows a nauseous dose of medicine 
or indicates an active stage of seasickness. As one 
looked at the grim-cut and blackened countenance it 
seemed to say, " That's the sort of stuff you get in this 



THE REGION ROUND ABOUT. 8 1 

place." At Badsey was a home for the sick monks of 
the abbey of Evesham; the sculptured heads in the 
church represent men in the pains of illness — toothache, 
colic, etc. This sort of humor is now expressed in obit- 
uary poetry — unconsciously, of course, as in the follow- 
ing lines taken from a stone in a Birmingham graveyard : 

" O cruel death ! How could you be so unkind 
As to take him before and leave me behind ? 
You should have taken both, if either, 
Which would have been more pleasant to the survivor." 

This at Naunton Beauchamp upon a Captain Wambey 
is too good to be omitted : 

" Here lies, retired from worldly deeds, 
An old officer of the Invalids, 
Who in the army was born and bred, 
But now lies quarter'd with the dead. 
Stripp'd of all his warlike show, 
And laid in box of oak below, 
Confin'd in earth, in narrow borders, 
He rises not till further orders /" 



CHAPTER IV. 

ILobe in ge ©lien Emit. 

" Say that she frown ; I'll say she looks as clear 
As morning roses newly washed with dew." 

The title will suggest the nature of the chapter, and 
they who are not interested in either the " sweet story " 
or how it was told in these remote districts of England 
in bygone days may omit the next twenty pages without 
injury to themselves and without interfering with the 
thread of the book. But you, gentle reader — and I call 
you " gentle " the more heartily because you are willing 
to follow me along — will find herein something that will 
please your heart even if it does not tell you anything 
new. How can the first story of Eden be told again 
with freshness ? But who does not like to listen to its 
undying echoes, and to recall the days, so full of romance 
and poetry and pretty dreams, when innocence and beau- 
ty adorned the present with their gentle grace, and over 
the future happiness and truth and faith hung like soft 
clouds of the morning dyed with the splendor and the 
glory of the rising sun ? Then love was trustful, all- 
absorbing, devoted — pure and passionate, perhaps, as in 
Juliet ; silent and patient, as in Viola ; thoughtful, inex- 
perienced and sad, as in Ophelia ; mirthful, witty, spright- 
ly, as in Rosalind; refined, exquisite, heavenly, as in 

82 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 83 

Miranda. Then life had not subdued the soul nor hard- 
ened the heart, and the spirit lived as in a fairyland with 
the pretty elves and happy imps that dance and sing and 
romp and play in the merry greenwood or amid the 
woodbine and the roses. 

The rural people of England are in no sense poetical 
and refined : they are of sterner stuff than Italian or 
French, more practical and matter of fact; yet as we 
look back upon the customs which once prevailed 
largely, and in some places still linger more or less, we 
see much that is as pleasing as the song of gay trouba- 
dours or the romance of Southern bards. 

There was then the same anxiety and care displayed 
in the matter of love as now. All sorts of charms were 
tried, first to ensnare some unwary one of the opposite 
sex, and then to prove if he or she were true. Love- 
sick maidens — i. e. } maidens who were sick, not with 
love, but with the lack of it — looked for their lovers in 
the grounds of their teacups, tied strings nine times 
round the bedpost for their future lord to untie, sowed 
hempseed in the back yard that he might mow it, and 
watched the Midsummer-night out in the church porch 
that they might catch a glimpse of him. As young 
ladies nowadays place a piece of their newly-married 
friend's wedding-cake under their pillow that they may 
dream of their own future, so two hundred years ago 
young men used to hang their shoes out of the window 
and hide daisy-roots under their pillow for the same 
purpose. A charm which one would hope was not very 
general was first to boil an egg hard and after taking out 
the contents fill the shell with salt, and then, on going 
to bed at night, eat shell and salt without either speak- 



84 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

ing or drinking after it : a happy vision would reveal the 
one to be beloved. There was once sold a most effica- 
cious love-powder that could not fail to produce the 
most desirable affection in any upon whom it was 
sprinkled. Whether it had the effect that the juice of 
Oberon's little Western flower had, of making " the man 
or woman madly dote upon the next live creature that 
it sees," I do not know. One thing is certain — that by 
some means or other many a poor laddie's heart was 
stolen away and in many a sweet maiden's eyes tears 
hung like beauteous pearls. Beatrice and Benedick may 
both resolve never to marry, but some day Beatrice will 
tame her wild heart to his loving hand, and Benedick 
will exclaim in all the repentance of love, '■ When I said 
I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till 
I were married." Should the lover have any desire to 
know if his lady were true, he could resort to some of 
the many charms then in vogue among the curious of 
both sexes. A favorite plan was to take a leaf of yar- 
row and tickle the inside of the nostril, at the same time 
repeating these lines : 

" Green 'arrow, green 'arrow, you bear a white blow : 
If my love love me, my nose will bleed now ; 
If my love don't love me, it 'ont bleed a drop ; 
If my love do love me, 'twill bleed every drop." 

And thus love's sweet flower took root in each heart, 
and all that could be done was done to make it grow. 
He wore her favors — her glOve or scarf or kerchief — in 
his hat or on his breast, wrote verses in her praise, 
carved her name on tree or post or fence, sang songs to 
her in the quiet eventide, conned pretty sayings that 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 85 

should please her ear and touch her heart, fought for 
her against all rivals and detractors, sent her choice 
presents— ribbons and laces, sugar and cakes, cloves and 
cinnamon, perhaps his best and bravest hawk or his own 
true, trusted greyhound; she talked and dreamed of 
him, waited, watched and wept for him, wore her pret- 
tiest gown and finest headdress, bathed her face in May- 
dew and scented herself with lavender and musk, prayed 
that he might be her Valentine and she his dear May- 
queen, and when he stood before her blushed with a 
beauty and a loveliness that shamed the roses of the 
garden, the ruby-tinted morning sky itself. 

But suppose all the charms and plots failed to touch 
the angel of the opposite sex ; what then ? Well, then, 
as Sir Roger de Coverley hath it, " there is a good deal 
to be said on both sides." Some would pine and sor- 
row; some, look farther afield. Viola would 

" let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, 
Feed on her damask cheek," 

and Ophelia would drown herself in the willow-shaded 
brook ; but Philarete would most likely meditate upon 
the inevitable after this fashion: 

" Shall I, wasting in despaire, 
Dye, because a woman's fair ? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care 
'Cause another's Rosie are ? 

Be she fairer than the Day 

Or the flow'ry Meads in May, 

If she thinke not well of me 

What care I how faire she be ? 

" Shall my seely heart be pin'd 
'Cause I see a woman kind ? 



86 THE HEART OE M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

Or a well-disposed Nature 
Joyned with a lovely feature ? 

Be she Meeker, Kinder than 

Turtle-dove or Pellican, 

If she be not so to me, 

What care I how kind she be ? 

" Great or Good or Kind or Faire, 
I will ne'er the more despaire : 
If she love me (this beleeve), 
I will Die ere she shall grieve. 

If she slight me when I woe, 

I can scorne and let her goe ; 

For if she be not for me, 

What care I for whom she be ?" 

The good old ballad is not far from wrong, though 
the song says : 

" A poore soule sat sighing under a sicamore tree ; 

O willow, willow, willow ! 
With his hand on his bosom, his head on his knee ; 

O willow, willow, willow ! 

O willow, willow, willow ! 
Sing, O the greene willow shall be my garland." 

A youth so far gone as that would be likely to have 
neither the garland of a bachelor at his funeral nor 
sweet-william and rosemary on his grave, for, on the 
principle that an overdose of poison defeats its pur- 
pose, he would recover. As Rosalind said, " Men have 
died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but 
not for love." Only remember, 

" A man his mynd should never set 
Upon a thing he cannot get." 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 87 

There is one question always asked concerning lovers : 
"What did he see in her?" or "What did she see in 
him?" It is, I presume, a natural inquiry, though 
slightly touched with a mild spitefulness and envy. 
But here, if anywhere, there is no accounting for 
tastes. There is such a wide and happy diversity 
that, no matter if a world cannot see anything to ad- 
mire in a youth of either sex, some one individual will 
be likely to discover a charm that will lead him or her 
captive. It has been asked, " Who ever loved that loved 
not at first sight?" and we further ask, " What did Love 
see at first sight ? What sends the arrow speeding to 
its mark ?" Perhaps, as far as he is concerned — and I 
would not venture to say aught of a woman's inclina- 
tions — it may be a dimple in her cheek, a playful 
twitching of her lips, a pretty frown upon her fore- 
head, a sparkling glance in her eye. It may be the 
color of her eyes — black, brown, blue, green or gray. 
In Chaucer's time a gray eye was considered the 
height of perfection, Dante knew no prettier than the 
green eyes of his Beatrice ; and with the latter Cer- 
vantes and Cicero both agree. It may be the color of 
her hair — anything from the white flaxen to the raven 
black. Spenser was evidently partial to yellow hair. 
His Florimell, Belphcebe, Alma, Una, Britomart, and 
others of his creations, have all hair like the Virgin 
Queen herself, of the bright golden hue. Or it may 
be her nose — a straight nose or a crooked nose, a wee 
little thing or a miniature elephantine model, a pug or 
a turn-up or a sharp point. Possibly it is her eyebrows 
— arched, full, dark, expressive; or her eyelashes — 
long, short, even, tear-bedewed or fringe-like. Perhaps 



88 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

it is her complexion — white as the pale lily or bright as 
the red rose ; or her hands — fat and plump, or long and 
lean; or her general carriage — stately and grand or 
sprightly and gay. Perhaps your wise young man 
remembers that 

" The fairest rose in shortest time decays," 

and so he is attracted by accomplishments rather than 
by charms. Nobody knows what men may fall in love 
with. It may be something better than any other quali- 
fication whatsoever, a noble, loving, devoted soul — a soul 
that reveals itself to none but the one it loves, a soul that 
remains ever constant and faithful, ever gentle and kind, 
and gives to the body its sweetest grace, its truest life, 
its most winning charm. Happy is the man who is won 
by such an attraction as this. It matters little whether 
his lady-love be as beautiful as Herrick's Sappho, whose 
pure paleness the white roses tried to outrival and blushed 
for very failure, or as plain and homely as the plainest 
and homeliest damsel you can find : she will be true when 
all else is false, precious when all else is worthless, lovely 
when all else has lost its charm, and young when all else 
is old. 

There is extant an interesting letter written by an 
Eton boy in the year 1479 to n ^ s brother, describing 
how he had met at a wedding the younger daughter 
of a widow, a gentlewoman eighteen or nineteen years 
old, and how he had fallen desperately in love with 
her. He wished his brother to go and see her. She 
would have something when she married, and more at 
her mother's death ; " and," adds he, " as for hyr bewte, 
juge you that when ye see hyr, yf so be that ye take 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 89 

the laubore, and specialy beolde hyr handys." Like 
many another schoolboy's love, so earnest and sincere 
for the time, William Paston's came to nothing. 
And this brings us to the famous lines, 

" For aught that ever I could read, 
Could ever hear by tale or history, 
The course of true love never did run smooth." 

The proof is to be found in the times when the unmar- 
ried possessor or inheritor of wealth was a marketable 
commodity and was sold very much as a horse or a cow 
was sold. From the days of William Rufus down to 
the times of the Commonwealth an heir or an heiress 
was the ward — I should say the property — of the Crown, 
and could get married only with the consent of the king 
and by payment of a heavy fee. Frequently the match 
was made by the sovereign or the council, and the par- 
ties concerned were forced to accept the arrangement 
and make the best of it. The same practice ran through 
all society. If not the king or the feudal lord, then the 
parents or other relatives, decided the question. Thus in 
those happy ages a maiden's heart was rarely her own to 
give. If she ventured to love when she should not or 
failed to love when she should, it was not unusual to lock 
her up, beat her, starve her, and ill-treat her generally, 
until her affections were brought into proper subjection. 
Of a girl of twenty who refused to marry a disfigured 
widower of fifty we are told in a letter written in the 
year 1449 to her brother, " She hath since Easter the 
most part been beaten once in the week or twice, and 
sometimes twice in one day, and her head broken in two 
or three places." This was in high life and under her 



90 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

own mother's roof, but the girl was disobedient and 
plucky, nor did she have the widower. She was an ex- 
ception to the rule. A dutiful child did not think of fall- 
ing in love or of selecting a partner in matrimony. The 
utmost freedom existed between young people of the 
opposite sexes. Young ladies and young gentlemen 
kissed each other freely whenever they met, in the streets 
or in the houses. As Erasmus tells us, " there were 
kisses when you came, and kisses when you went away 
— delicate, fragrant kisses that would assuredly tempt a 
poet from abroad to stay in England all his days." But 
there was no thought of marriage. That was a thing 
others would arrange ; and if once in a while the rule 
were broken and the liberty of loving without permis- 
sion indulged in, then, most assuredly, the course of true 
love did not run smoothly. As a rule, however, the 
young people of the Middle Ages had a most excellent 
control over their affections. They generally loved when 
told to do so, and generally kept their hearts whole 
when their friends thought it desirable. 

We have an interesting illustration of all this in a 
Norfolkshire family in the reign of Henry IV. John 
Paston, a younger and needy brother of a man of con- 
siderable position and wealth in that county, was a free, 
jovial, good-natured fellow with only one thing wanting 
to complete his happiness — viz., a rich wife. He did not 
care much about the woman, so that she had money : 
she was only a necessary inconvenience attached to an 
estate. The elder brother did his best for him. On 
John's behalf he wooed every likely spinster and widow 
he could find. It was nothing to have two or three 
strings to his bow at the same time. He tried — or, at 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 9 1 

least, was told by John to try — to get a pretty daughter 
of a London draper, also a young " thing," as he signifi- 
cantly and business-like calls her, in the same city, and 
also " some old thrifty draff-wife " in the same city. All 
these attempts, and others like them, failed, but at last a 
suitable damsel was found, sweet Margery Brews, a 
bright, spry girl, who when once she learned that John's 
heart was touched and that he was negotiating with her 
mother gave the latter no rest till the affair was satisfac- 
torily settled. She was head over heels in love — wildly, 
madly in love ; but her father was not willing to pay 
down with her quite so much as John desired, and for a 
time things looked doubtful. Her mother promised to 
give the young couple three years' board if they would 
only marry. " I shall give you," she further says, writ- 
ing to John, " a greater treasure — that is, a witty gentle- 
woman, and, if I say it, both good and virtuous ; for if 
I should take money for her, I would not give her for a 
thousand pounds." And dear Margery herself wrote to 
him some of the sweetest love-letters any girl could 
write, in which she begs him not to give her up for the 
sake of the money. She had him ; they were married 
and lived happily. 

Two hundred years later, and we find our old friend 
Mr. Samuel Pepys doing the same sort of thing. He 
and Sir John Paston, the elder brother of the John just 
mentioned, were two of the most energetic and accom- 
plished of matchmakers. Samuel had a sister, Paulina, 
who was, he says, proud and idle, not over-friendly to 
his wife, " so cruel an hypocrite that she can cry when 
she pleases," and so ill-natured that he could not love 
her. Moreover, he adds, "she grows old and ugly." 



92 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Everything that he could do to " dispose of her " he did. 
He got his wife to speak to a clerk on Miss Pepys's be- 
half, and he received the advice " with mighty acknow- 
ledgements," but " had no intention to alter his condition." 
A young parson was tried, but in vain. Time rolled by, 
and no husband for Paulina. At last " a plain young 
man, handsome enough for Pall, one of no education nor 
discourse," was found, and for a comfortable considera- 
tion he took her ; and so, says Pepys, " that work is, I 
hope, well over." He was engaged in more serious 
matchmaking than this, but really it was mean of him 
after going to church one Christmas day to write, " Saw 
a wedding in the church, which I have not seen for many 
a day; and the young people so merry one with an- 
other ! and strange to see what delight we married peo- 
ple have to see these poor fools decoyed into our con- 
dition, every man and woman gazing and smiling at 
them." 

Not always did such matches turn out well. There 
was in the year 1294 in a little Norfolk village a widow 
named Sara Felix. Her husband had left her consid- 
erable property and three daughters, the eldest of whom 
was not more than eight or nine years old when her 
father died. This daughter, whose name was Alice, we 
may imagine was, from the fact of her mother's wealth, 
if not for her own beauty, a lovable object in the eyes 
of young men far and near. At any rate, when she was 
about fifteen, she was wooed and won by an eligible 
youth named John of Thyrsford. In all probability, I 
should say, her mother was wooed and her fortune was 
won, the girl being thrown in as an unimportant, though 
necessary, part of the matrimonial bargain. I fancy 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 93 

there was very little of the sunshine and poetry that 
lovers nowadays contrive to get into their courtship. 
The marriage was an unhappy one. John had not been 
married more than a year or two when he began to 
devise means to regain his freedom. 

Divorces were difficult to obtain in those days, and, 
except by payment of heavy costs, there was but one 
way by which it was possible to get one. This one way 
was both easy and cheap, and that way John tried. 
Could a man but get a bishop to admit him to orders 
— the minor orders would do — he became at once, if a 
serf, free from villeinage ; if a husband, free from matri- 
mony. Clerics could not be slaves either to a lord or to 
a wife: they were sons of liberty. So John got or- 
dained, and thus got divorced from poor little Alice. 
The worst of it was that the girl could not marry again, 
and, as she had no child, she was doomed to a lonely 
life. 

Easy would it be to draw a sketch of the child-wife 
in her deserted youth. We might picture her sighing 
and sobbing in the eventide, weeping under the lonely 
willows, ministering to loving cats and tricksy dogs. 
We might picture her wearing the weeds of widowhood, 
singing mournful ditties as she picked apples in the or- 
chard or turnips in the field, going to church twice a 
day by way of desperation and attending executions and 
ordeals by way of amusement. But such pictures would 
be purely imaginary. We are not told whether the roses 
faded in her cheeks or the lustre died in her eyes ; in 
fact, though we may reasonably suppose she had cheeks 
and eyes, we have no evidence that she had either roses 
or lustre. We do not know if she lamented her loss to 



94 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

her friends, if she learned to hate mankind in general or 
John of Thyrsford in particular : these are points fancy, 
and not history, can deal with. Perhaps she was as glad 
to get rid of him as he was to get rid of her : the wed- 
ding had turned out badly. Any way, she managed to 
live on as the lady of the village for nearly fifty years 
after her divorce. Her husband became vicar of the 
same village — perhaps the divorce did not mean so 
much, after all, though the story is provokingly silent 
on that point — and vicar he remained for some forty 
years. He died ten years before Alice. When old age 
came upon her, and the tresses of youth were gray, if 
not gone, and the dimples of maidenhood had changed 
into the wrinkles of senility, she gave up her property, 
went into a nunnery, and there died. 

This is the true and faithful history of Alice the wife 
of John of Thyrsford and the daughter of Thomas the 
Lucky of Rougham, and they who wish to verify it can 
go to the writings of an erudite divine of Norwich, Dr. 
Jessop by name. 

It is pleasing to know that there were other motives 
than those we have mentioned — happy exceptions to the 
rule — which moved parents to give their daughters in 
marriage. About the year 1559, Sir William Hewet, 
the lord mayor, lived on London Bridge, and one day, 
when the nurse was playing with his little daughter 
Anne at one of the broad lattice-windows overlooking 
the Thames, the child fell into the water. A young ap- 
prentice named Osborne, seeing the accident, leaped into 
the fierce current below the arches and saved the infant. 
The story is told and an illustration of the leap given in 
Cassell's Old and New London. "Years after, many 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 95 

great courtiers, including the earl of Shrewsbury, came 
courting fair Mistress Anne, the rich citizen's heiress. 
Sir William, her father, said to one and all, * No ; Os- 
borne saved her, and Osborne shall have her.' And so 
Osborne did, and became a rich citizen, and lord mayor 
in 1583." 

Assuming that the friends and^the law were satisfied, 
and that the affection of the parties most concerned was 
as warm and true as it should be, the thing had to be 
made public and an open betrothal to be performed. It 
was from the friends and acquaintances the awkwardness 
would chiefly arise. The would-be bridegroom, and the 
would-be bride scarcely less so, would have to endure 
many a queer joke, coarse jest and broad laugh — good- 
natured enough, no doubt, but none the less hard to 
suffer. They would be watched in church and in the 
street, mimicked and rhymed, asked all sorts of awk- 
ward questions and played all sorts of tricks, serenaded, 
toasted, gossiped over, sneered at, praised, disparaged, 
encouraged, caricatured, till life would not have been 
worth living had it not had love to sustain it. But, like 
all other nine-day wonders, this would die out and the 
match come to be looked upon as a matter of fact. 

And some evening there would be a grand party at 
the house of the maiden's father. All the relatives and 
friends far and near, including his reverence the parson 
and his scarcely less reverence the clerk, would be in- 
vited to witness the betrothal or engagement of Corydon 
and Philida. Fresh green rushes would be strewn over 
the floor, the tables and settees scrubbed clean and white, 
the candlesticks, snuffers, flagons, tankards and cups pol- 
ished to look as bright as new, and the larder filled with 
7 



96 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

good things — perhaps a piece of fresh beef, a rare article 
in olden time, perhaps a choice turkey, goose or fowl 
from the barnyard. In the cellar would be a bountiful 
supply of strong, heady ale and mead — maybe a cask or 
two of good wine from beyond the seas or home made — 
and the best minstrel or fiddler in the neighborhood 
would be engaged for the occasion. What a free, happy, 
boisterous time ! The old house would ring with the 
merry song and the loud chorus. A silver — perhaps a 
gold — coin would be broken in two between the lovers ; 
they would kiss each other, join hands and exchange 
rings, and vow to keep the faith now given. And the 
great silver cup was filled with the frothy, foaming ale 
and emptied by each guest to the honor and health of 
the young couple, and the men kissed the pretty, blush- 
ing girl and the women kissed the awkward, gawkish 
and supremely happy lad, and the fiddler exercised his 
art, and up the hall and down the hall the gay, light- 
hearted folks danced as we can never dance and shouted 
as we can never shout. Oh, they were merry ! 

Even the aged people forgot themselves. The old 
grandfather laughed and sang till the tears ran down his 
withered cheeks, and the ancient dame his wife rested 
not till she had had her hop and jump — it could scarcely 
be called a dance, for she used crutches and was nearly 
double — with the brightest and liveliest of the crowd. 
Away they go ! 

"If music be the food of love, play on !" 

Hither and thither, in and out, off and back again, till, 
exhausted, they sit down around the festive board. 
There are, of course, love-letters — private, confidential, 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 97 

eloquent. Many have survived the wasting of time ; of 
which, take the following, written by the pretty Margery 
already mentioned to her lover, John Paston. It is dated 
February, 1477, and, while illustrating the universal 
spirit of such effusions, will by reprinting do no possi- 
ble harm to people who have so long passed away : 

" Unto my ryght welebelovyd Voluntyn, John Paston, 
Sqnyer, be this bill delyvered, etc. 

" Ryght reverent and wurschypfull, and my ryght 
welebeloved Voluntyne, I recomande me unto yowe, 
ffull hertely desyring to here of yowr welefare, whech I 
beseche Almyghty God long for to preserve un to Hys 
plesur, and yowr herts desyre. And yf it please yowe 
to here of my welefar, I am not in good heele of body, 
nor of herte, nor schall be tyll I her ffrom yowe ; 

For there wottys no creature what peyn that I endure, 
And for to be deede, I dare it not dyscure. 

And my lady my moder hath labored the mater to my 
fTader full delygently, but sche can no mor gete then ye 
knowe of, for the whech God knowyth I am full sory. 
But yf that ye loffe me, as I tryste verely that ye do, ye 
will not lerTe me therefor ; for if that ye hade not halfe 
the lyvelode that ye hafe, for to do the grettest labur 
that any woman on lyve myght, I wold not forsake 
yowe. 

And yf ye commande me to kepe me true wherever I go, 
I wyse I will do all my myght yowe to love and never no mo, 
And yf my freends say, that I do amys, 
Thei schal not me let so for to do, 



98 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Myne herte me bydds ever more to love yowe 

Truly over all erthely thing, 
And yf thei be never so wroth, 
I tryst it schall be better in tyme commyng. 

" No more to yowe at this tyme, but the Holy Trinitie 
hafe yowe in kepyng. And I besech yowe that this bill 
be not seyn of none erthely creatur safe only your selffe, 
etc. 

"And thys letter was indyte at Topcroft, with full 
hevy herte, etc., 

" By your own, 

"Margery Brews." 

Poor Margery ! and when her lover's elder brother, 
Sir John, had " consyderyd hyr persone, hyr yowthe, 
and the stok that she is comyn ofTe, the love on bothe 
sydes, the tendre ffavor that she is in with hyr ffader and 
mooder, the kyndenesse off hyr ffadr and moodr to hyr 
in departyng with hyr, the ffavor also, and goode con- 
ceyte that they have in my brother, the worshypfull and 
vertuous dysposicion off hyr ffadr and moodr, whyche 
pronostikyth that, of lyklihod, the mayde sholde be ver- 
tuous and goode," he was agreeable to the match ! 

Here is another, of the seventeenth century, the orig- 
inal of which is in the British Museum : 

" Deare Hearte, I am heartilie sorry that some occa- 
sions have hindered me from coming to see you all this 
while ; I desire you to impute my absence not to want 
of love, but of leisure ; and I beseech you to bee as- 
sured that there lives not a more constant, faithfull, 
and affectionate lover uppon the face of the whole 
earth than I am, of your most worthie selfe, whose 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 99 

vertue & beavty is such that I haue uerie good cause 
to belejue there lives not a second to be parallell'd wth 
you. I haue here sent you a small token, whch I 
desire you to accept of; I haue allso sent you a copy 
of uerses made by him who is the admirer & adorer of 
your divjne beautje; Henrje Oxjnden. Barham : Feb: 
26: 1641. An^ CEtat : tuce, 17." 

What becomes of these interesting epistles ? That is 
more than we can say. They are written in abundance 
— thousands, I suppose, every day — but they are scarce 
as roses in Greenland. Perhaps they are burnt as soon 
as read — or, at least, as soon as the affair of which they 
treat is happily terminated. And yet, when a breach-of- 
promise case comes before the court, there are the let- 
ters ! One young lady who collected hers made a pil- 
low of them. She slept on that sweet bundle till one 
day, about four months after her wedding, she had a 
difference with her husband, and the pillow found its 
way into the fire. Another lady had hers bound in a 
volume, and every morning after she had read her chap- 
ter in the Bible she read one of the letters and then said 
her prayers. She maintained that it was her duty to 
keep alive the remembrances of the past and to nour- 
ish the sacred emotion. A third had hers reduced to 
a pulp and then made up into an antique Japanese cas- 
ket for jewelry. These, however, are only a few among 
the myriads ; where do the rest go ? 

Love-letters are sweet and pleasant, but the happy 
hours the young folks spend together are still sweeter 
and pleasanter. To see young Colin getting ready to 
go and court his lassie was a sight that would tickle and 
please any heart. His mother says he was never so 



100 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

clean and tidy and exact before in his life. There must 
not be a speck of dust or dirt on his clothes ; his shoes 
must shine like a looking-glass and his handkerchief be 
redolent with bergamot. His sister Mary brushes him, 
and pins in his coat the best carnation and rosebud she 
can find in the garden, and sends him off with a good 
sisterly kiss and with kindred feelings ; for she expects 
Tim, old Farmer Berry's son, that very evening. And 
Colin trudges across the fields and through the shaded 
lane whistling as happily and loudly as any bird in the 
world. He begins to think himself somebody : he in- 
tends to join the militia or the rifle volunteers — or, as 
they would call it many years since, the train-band; 
and oh how glad he will be when Lucy is his wife! 
As he goes by he looks in at the little cottage which 
his father intends to give him as the first home for his 
bride, and thoughts of the future fill him with joy. And 
when he reaches Lucy's house, how pleased she is to 
see him ! Her eyes sparkle with delight, and no kiss 
was ever so sweet as that which she shyly and mod- 
estly gives him. And when she gets her hat and they 
go off for an hour's ramble down to the meadow or 
through the woods or by the side of the brook, he 
thinks never was girl so dear as she, and she thinks 
him to be the only one worth having among all the 
swains of the country-side. Happy dreams ! Life is 
full of flowers and sunshine. The world is nothing to 
them : they are each other's world ; and without a thought 
other than that of supremest joy they pluck the vio- 
lets, the oxslips and the sweet-brier, and sing their 
merry lays with glad, free hearts and trilling voices, 
and talk of the days and the blessings that shall be 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 10 1 

theirs in the not-far-distant by and by. When they 
get home, they find that mother has got the tea ready ; 
the kettle is singing on the hob, and on the table, cov- 
ered with a snow-white cloth, are new-made bread, fresh 
butter, clotted cream and bright-green watercresses. 
The blackbird in the wicker cage pours forth his 
best and richest melody ; even the cat purrs and hums 
as if her heart also were full of love and joy. And the 
old gentleman comes in and gives Colin a hearty wel- 
come, for Colin is a good boy and already owns three 
cows and a dozen sheep, and is about as likely a fellow 
as Lucy could get. They are all happy now together. 
Mother pours out the tea, but Lucy puts in the sugar ; 
and Colin is sure he never drank such tea in his life 
before. His appetite is not very good, and he blushes 
scarlet when his future father-in-law slyly asks, " Eh, 
Colin my lad, has thee no fancy for a bit of Lucy's home- 
made bread ?" And the poor fellow gulps it down be- 
cause she made it. There are shrimps and onions, and 
Colin and Lucy are both fond of them, but neither 
touches them. " Don't be afraid," says the tormenting 
father ; " they won't hurt you." — " Help yourselves," 
says mother ; " if both take some, it will be all the 
same." And Lucy consents and Colin agrees, and 
shrimps and onions begin to depart. The conversa- 
tion runs along, now about the weather, now the crops, 
now Mary Lemon's lame cow, now about old Crum- 
leigh's wonderful litter of pigs. " Never heard of such 
a thing before in my life," says Lucy's father, and Colin 
says he doesn't think he has, either. Then the talk 
turns to making butter, rearing ducks, snubbing the 
parson, the jockey-races, the new steward, the comet, 



102 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

the turkey-gobbler, the host putting in the refrain every 
now and then, " Shrimps and onions are nice, eh, Colin ? 
Thought you would like them, and what's the difference, 
as mother says, when you both have them ?" And by 
and by the old folks leave the lovers alone — the good 
souls remember the days when they were young — and 
another sweet hour passes away nobody knows how 
fast. Colin cannot believe it is time for him to go 
home, and Lucy wishes he was not obliged to go. 
The old folks wonder what they have had to talk 
about for so long, but, dear hearts ! there is no sub- 
ject so suggestive as love, and lovers could talk and 
talk till morning and never get tired. But they part at 
last ; a few warm kisses, a fond embrace, and Colin is 
on his way home, and Lucy is helping her mother clear 
up the house or is putting her best gown and scarf away 
in the lavender-scented clothes-press till next Sunday 
or to the next time Colin comes. This is a sketch that 
will apply to any age with but little alteration, from the 
days long since forgotten to the present year of grace. 
The happiness is beyond expression ; the innocence, 
purity and love are as perfect as in the Eden of old 
or in the Paradise above. 

Not always, however, are things so smooth and pleas- 
ant as this. Sometimes there are misunderstandings and 
quarrellings. This to the point : Strephon and Celia 
were lovers. He was gentle and good ; she was lovely 
as the morning star set in the dark sky. Nothing had 
ever arisen to mar the sweetness or to disturb the joy of 
their love. All who knew them said they were born for 
each other. If he saw a pout upon her lips, he kissed it 
away; if she saw a frown upon his brow, she looked 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME, 103 

upon him with her bright, sunny eyes till the cloud faded 
into a smile. But one day the quarrel came. It was 
over a trifle not worth speaking of, but the words that 
followed were sharp as lightning and the looks dark as 
the thunder-clouds. And bitter thoughts ran through 
their hearts — thoughts that threatened death to their 
love and woe to their future. Never would he speak to 
her again ; nevermore would she look him in the face. 
They parted for ever. She stood on the sedgy bank of 
the brook in the dying sunlight. Not a breath of wind 
ruffled the water or stirred the rushes or the willows. 
The lilies in the stream were folding up their white 
flowers for the night, and here and there a lone bird was 
seeking its nest. He had left her ; why should she live 
longer ? Perhaps if she drowned herself in that silent 
river he would shed a tear upon her grave, perhaps plant 
a flower at her feet. They said that brook ran like a 
watery way to the sea : perhaps she might make it a 
path to a better and truer world. Anyway, life was not 
worth having without Strephon, and better die now 
than live with a broken heart. Hush, sad thought ! 
The sun has gone to rest and the night-wind begins its 
weird moaning among the willows. There is the hoot- 
ing of the owl, and from afar comes the voice of howl- 
ing dog. The stream flows on its dismal course, mur- 
muring as though it sang a death-song. Oh night of 
gloom! Oh thought of woe! Hush! what a shriek 
and plunge ! And all is still save the moaning wind and 
the sobbing water. It was only the cry of the night- 
hawk and the splash of a great fish. Celia is on her 
way home, and to-morrow morning she will take from 
Strephon's hand a bunch of sweet violets and give him 



104 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

a kiss far more sweet and fragrant than they. Such are 
the storms that try love's happy life. 

It is, I suppose, when reviewing all the changes and 
chances of sweethearting and the fortunes and accidents 
of matrimony that some men make up their minds never 
to marry. Whether they deserve praise or pity is a 
question not easily answered. Probably a bachelor de- 
sires neither, but the world is ever disposed to be gen- 
erous in its commendation or its sympathy to those who 
have been fortunate or unfortunate enough to remain in 
single life. On the whole, the world, if forced to judge, 
is rather censorious than otherwise. It thinks that it is 
not good for man to live alone, but seeing that every 
man was a bachelor once, and would have remained one 
had he not married, it is well he should hesitate in ex- 
pressing an opinion either way. But when legislation 
utters its voice, it is generally against the bachelor. 
Perhaps this is so because governing bodies are nearly 
always composed of married men. None other could 
sit in the Jewish Sanhedrin or in the Roman Senate or 
in the councils of Athens and Sparta. The ancients had 
no mercy on them. During the winter, in Sparta, they 
were compelled to march round the market-place sing- 
ing a song composed against themselves and expressing 
the justice of their punishment. In Rome heavy taxes 
were laid upon them, and in England they were once 
obliged to pay a fine for their privilege. Even in the 
present day every remark made concerning bachelordom 
is not complimentary. There is a conception in the 
popular mind that a bachelor is the personification of 
a great deal that is not desirable. He is supposed to be 
mean, cross, grumpy, unattractive, ugly in soul if not 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 105 

in body, selfish, affectionless, quarrelsome, irreligious, 
conceited, irreconcilable, without either wit or humor 
and with more than his rightful share of human wicked- 
ness. The marriage service reminds him that matrimony- 
is honorable among all men, and therefore his state is 
the reverse. How in the name of all that is lovable he 
became confirmed in his singularity no one knows. 
Various answers will be given — some sagacious, some 
spiteful, some safe, some sympathetic, some sarcastic, 
some satirical, and none, perhaps, true. His example, 
at any rate, is bad ; for suppose Adam had declined Eve, 
what would have happened ? The women look shyly 
upon one who has so persistently resisted the charms 
of their sex, and the Benedicts, being themselves in the 
freedom or the bondage, whichever way you take it, of 
wedlock, think of him as one who has evaded his duty. 
And he thinks it is hard a man cannot please himself in 
a matter of this kind. Who has any business to dictate 
to him what he shall do ? Who has a right to reproach 
him for having been luckier than the most of men ? If 
flies choose to run into spiders' webs, and fish to seize 
the baited hook, and men to put their heads into a noose, 
is he obliged to do the same ? And as to women, adds 
he, it all depends how you look at them. Painters and 
poets see all the perfections, but the reality and the 
imagination do not always agree. 

Alack, poor bachelor ! 

One loves to dream of the merry maidens one has 
known. Beneath the greenwood tree in such a sylvan 
nook as that in which the mischievous and witty Rosa- 
lind cured her Orlando of his sickness, or in the quiet 
of such a moonlight eventide as that in which Lorenzo 



106 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

and sweet Jessica told anew their love, or in a rural spot 
where flowers in all their sweetness and their grace 
abound, like unto that in which the pretty Perdita and 
the noble Florizel found their souls knit in one, or be- 
side a stream like that in which the love-deceived Ophe- 
lia drowned herself, — these are the scenes of fancy's 
revels, the scenes where memory and imagination walk 
hand in hand together. In the early morning, when the 
dawn with rosy fingers unbars the gates of light; or, 
better still, in the evening, when Venus blushingly lays 
herself down upon her bed of glory in the west, so 
softly white, so sweetly tinted; or in the stilly night, 
when upon the mountains, with their pinnacles of snowy 
splendor and depths of sombre gloom, falls the stars' 
soft light, — comes the happy dream-time when mind 
and heart are one. Wandering and dreaming through 
the woodland groves, one can see the milk-white palfrey 
of fair Florimell breaking through the thick brush, the 
golden hair of the beautiful maiden flowing in long 
streams as she seeks to escape from the false Archimago. 
On she speeds till lost to sight in the winding lanes of 
the forest, and ere long comes that true knight Prince 
Arthur to save the maid of his friend Marinell. And 
fancy follows her to the cottage built of sticks and reeds 
in a gloomy glen where she hoped to receive shelter and 
found witchcraft. Fear gave her strength and speed, 
and soon we see her tossed on ocean-wave, ere long to 
fall into the deep dungeon of the sea-monster Proteus. 
Never was grief so terrible as that of Cymoent over the 
body of Marinell or of Satyrane over the loss of Flori- 
mell. But in that fairyland strange things are brought 
about : Marinell is restored to life, Florimell is rescued 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. \0J 

from her watery prison, and in the fair sunshine their 
faith is rewarded and they are given to each other. As 
in the dreamy drama this chaste and lovely lady fades 
into the fleeting moments' mists others no less beautiful 
and fair appear. There are the twin daughters of Chryso- 
gone, the brave Belphcebe and the sweet Amoretta, and, 
like stars of early eve, Britomart, Columbell, Hellenore, 
Alma and Una. There is Sabrina, who, fleeing from her 
angry step-dame, Gwendolen, plunged into the Severn 
flood, where the water-nymphs bore her to the aged 
Nereus's hall. Here was she made goddess of the river, 
and now the shepherds sing of her maiden gentleness, 
tell how she visits the herds in the twilight meadows, 
and as a votive offering to her throw their garland 
wreaths of pansies, pinks and gaudy daffodils into the 
stream. And who can forget Herrick's Julia, with her 
dainty cherry lips and silken drapery ; or Keats's Mad- 
eline as in the wintry moonlight, pure and free, she 
prays for Heaven's grace ; or Coleridge's Christabel as 
she rescues the high-born Geraldine; or Fielding's 
Sophia, the spirit of truth in an atmosphere of ill ; or 
Boccaccio's Griselda, so constant in her love and obedi- 
ent in her life ; or Scott's Lucy Ashton, the beautiful 
and ill-fated bride of Lammermoor ? These are among 
the maids and matrons one has known. They flit like 
fairies before the mind. They are as real as though they 
were true flesh and blood. ' And one wonders which of 
them all one loves the best. We like Jessica, the sweet 
Christian pagan, better than the intellectual and yellow- 
haired Portia; we like Juliet, the passionate, whole- 
souled girl of the South, better than Isabella, Helena or 
Beatrice, though we prefer Perdita and Miranda to the 



108 THE HEART OF ME RE IE ENGLAND. 

romantic bride of Romeo. Viola appears as queen of 
queens. Florimell is the first of Spenser's creations, but 
we do not like her half so much as sweet Anne Page or 
the tender, steadfast Imogen or the pure Marina — per- 
haps because they have a more distinct personality. As 
to those of less position, we are not sure whether we 
like Agnes Wickfield better than Sophia Western, or 
Lorna Doone better than either. Lydia Languish, 
Emilia Gauntlet, Lydia Melford, Narcissa Topehall and 
Fanny Andrews are very well in their way, but their 
way is a long way from the fair dames who live in 
Shakespeare's pages. Moliere has nothing for us ; his 
Lucille, Dorimene, Lucinde, Melicerte and Daphne are 
not to be thought of with, say, Ben Jonson's Charis, 
Lodge's Rosalynd or Chaucer's Dorigen. As we cease 
our dreaming there comes upon the scene an endless 
procession of merry maidens whom we have known — 
the fair Emmeline, free Dowsabell, Maid Marion, peer- 
less Rosamond, Bessee of Bednall-Green, and the Nut- 
brown Maid, whose praises abide in minstrel's song; 
but we turn away and ask, " How can a man remain a 
bachelor in the presence of such beauty?" 

Alack, poor bachelor ! 

And now I haste to the end of the subject — to the day 
and the ceremony that concluded and crowned the vision 
of love in the olden time. In spite of the fact that there 
are old bachelors and old maids, it is said that married 
life is the mystery into which all who are not in seek to 
enter and all who are in seek to leave. This, if true, 
proves not only the desirability and the painfulness of 
matrimony, but also the weakness of human nature; for 
neither advice nor experience avails in the matter. St. 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. 109 

Jerome mentions a widow that married her twenty-sec- 
ond husband, who in his turn had been married to twen- 
ty wives ; a gentleman died at Bordeaux in 1772 who 
had been married sixteen times ; so that the wise saw, 
" A burnt child dreads the fire," does not apply to mat- 
rimony. Nor should it, according to our doctrine and 
to the consensus of mankind. 

June was the favorite month for weddings, and Sunday 
the favorite day ; May and Friday were ever thought un- 
lucky. The old Jews, as a rule, married maidens on a 
Wednesday and widows on a Thursday. A bright, clear 
morning was deemed propitious, for happy is the bride 
that the sun shines on. The church-bells rang their 
merry peals and the whole village prepared to keep 
holiday, for such an event occurred only once in a while. 
Long before the sun arose the preparations were going 
on. The girls were off to the woods and the meadows 
at daybreak to gather flowers and rushes to strew in the 
pathway of the bridal-party, and while the older people 
were getting the house ready for the feast the young men 
were preparing for the sports and the pastimes on the 
village green. The bride was arrayed in her gay gar- 
ments — generally white, in token of purity — and upon 
her head was placed a garland of flowers as a sign of 
her queenly station. Our garland consists of orange- 
blossoms, but in the olden time it was made of myrtle 
or roses or wheat-ears. In some lands it was even made 
of prickles, to signify to the husband that he had tied 
himself to a thorny pleasure. Everybody had posies of 
maiden-blushes, primroses, violets, pansies, rosemary or 
bay. Sometimes festoons and arches of evergreen were 
made, in which laurel, denoting triumph, was conspicu- 



110 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

ous. The bridegroom was taken to the church porch 
by the bridesmaids, and the bride by the groomsmen. 
The ceremony did not take place in the church, but at 
the door, till after the Reformation. There the happy 
couple stood before the village parson, and there the 
plighted troth was redeemed and the sentence spoken 
that made them man and wife — in words that have been 
used in the Church of England for more than a thousand 
years. Oh how wildly, cheerily, gladly, the bells pealed 
out in the church-tower ! And the minstrels played, and 
the neighbors cheered, and showers of roses or of wheat 
were poured upon the bridal pair, just as we cast rice, in 
token of prosperity. All were happy. The bride looked 
upon her wedding-ring, made of pure gold, to tell her 
that her lord's love was pure and true and endless as the 
ring was endless. Friends told her that as the ring wore 
out so her cares would wear away : I am not sure they 
told the truth. She gave her favors — gloves, ribbons, 
scarfs and garters — to the young men and maidens. 
She cut the wedding-cake — an institution of unknown 
antiquity — and the maid that was lucky enough to re- 
ceive the first piece would be the next bride. The bridal 
ale was drunk, and in the afternoon there were dancing 
and sporting till evensong. If there were an elder un- 
married sister, she would have to dance barefooted lest 
she should die an old maid ; the others all danced and 
played in green stockings. There were fun and merry- 
making — perhaps more and of another character than 
we should approve of, but our forefathers were blunt, 
plain folk overflowing with good-humor and animal 
spirits. When the bridegroom blundered and blushed, 
as bridegrooms sometimes will, they cheered and laughed 



LOVE IN YE OLDEN TIME. \\\ 

with a freedom and a heartiness that to him must have 
been anything but pleasant. The bride was encouraged 
in like manner till she was as red as a rose and glad to 
hide her face under the care-cloth. 

Ah, well ! this was the end of romance, and now be- 
gan real life. Shall I say that in that life there were 
charms and graces that the romance knew nothing of? 
Yes, indeed; for, beautiful as it is to see a lad and a lassie 
love as only lads and lassies can love, there is a more 
beautiful picture still — to behold an aged couple who 
have lived and loved through long years, whose love has 
withstood the test of time and been purified and made 
more precious in the fires of life's trials. They see in 
their own children the return of days long, long gone 
by ; and when they close their eyes upon this world, it 
is to enter into the renewed and eternal love and life of 
a brighter and a better world. 

And here we leave " Love in ye Olden Time," and in 
doing so I can only say of every newly-wedded pair, 

May life to them be like a summer river 

Where laughing ripples kissed by sunbeams dance, 

And reeds and rushes moved by soft winds quiver, 
Till Nature falls into a dreamy trance ! 

May life to them be like the clouds of even 

Lighted with all the splendor of the setting sun, 

When o'er the earth there comes the peace of heaven — 
The blessed rest that crowns a work well done ! 

May life to them be like a song of glory 

Such as the joyous lark sings at heaven's gate, 

Or victors tell in their glad thrilling story 
Of triumphs won upon the fields of fate ! 

8 



112 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

And when that life shall reach the deep sea's flowing, 
And earth's bright day shall make its shadows long, 

May they rejoice in love's warm, earnest glowing, 
While murmuring wavelets chant the evensong. 



CHAPTER V. 

at ©xfcirtr. 

11 He that hath Oxford seen, for beauty, grace, 
And healthiness, ne'er saw a better place." 

To Oxford ! 

Train from Moreton-in-the-Marsh at eleven in the 
forenoon; seven miles from Shipston to the railway- 
station. 

Shall we walk or drive ? 

Who could resist the temptation of walking in the 
gentle morning through a country pleasant to the eye, 
and with one who knew and loved every step of the way 
and was both lively in conversation and keen in obser- 
vation ? So, passing up the Swan lane, we began our 
early journey. A lovely day, the sun veiled now and 
then with fleecy clouds, birds singing in the hedges and 
trees by the wayside, the grass by the road fresh and 
springy to the tread, and everything such as to make 
the heart beat with delight and the mind dwell upon 
pleasant reminiscences and mirthful suggestions. 

The road runs about three miles till it crosses the 
famous Fossway, the great Roman street already spoken 
of in these pages. The traveller to Moreton turns by 
the Porto Bello and walks where the imperial legions 
once rode. A little distance on is an inn, the Golden 

113 



114 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Cross, down in a hollow by the old tramway-track from 
Moreton to Stratford. Once it was a busy place; now 
the sign is undecipherable and an ass eats the weeds 
which grow about the front door. The steep bit of hill 
leading down by it is somewhat awkward for drivers of 
heavy wagons ; even lighter vehicles have to be guided 
carefully. In Egyptian darkness a trap laden with three 
happy-hearted fellows was once dragging its way up. 
They were laughing and joking, when suddenly one of 
them cried out, " Where is the horse ?" Some part of 
the harness had broken, and the horse was quietly walk- 
ing out of the shafts ; another step, and the riders would 
have been thrown out, and perhaps killed. It is a place 
where necks have been broken. There is, indeed, an 
uncanny suspicion that some who have died there come 
back again ; any way, most people who go by, especially 
in the evening, find it necessary to refresh their spirits at 
the Golden Cross. Another high hill lies before them, 
on the right side of which is the village of Stretton. 
Pluck a handful of wild flowers by the way and watch 
the honey-bee settling on them utterly regardless of 
your presence. In the little brook crossing the road 
have been found trout ; indeed, in days gone by boys 
used to tickle them there. The operation is simple. 
Watch a fish lying in the mingling light and shade near 
the bank or under the bridge ; lie down noiselessly on 
the earth and slip the bared arm into the water under 
the fish ; tickle him : he seems to enjoy the operation, 
and gradually rises to the surface ; then, when near 
enough, strike the hand hard and fling him out on the 
bank. Neither Dame Juliana Berners nor Izaak Walton 
has anything to say upon this pastime ; notwithstanding, 



AT OXFORD. II5 

the trout is " a right deyntous fyssh," and tickling is 
second only to angling. 

But we must move on. 

This is Moreton-in-the-Marsh— a small town consist- 
ing of one wide street half a mile long and containing a 
church, a manufactory and a railway-station. We may 
not tarry; here comes the train. 

Away across the quiet Oxfordshire country ; pleasant, 
if not romantic. Once we catch a glimpse of Blenheim' 
the seat of the duke of Marlborough. We have been 
there. The grounds are exquisite, gardens and park 
perfect; the house is heavy and ugly. Close by is 
Woodstock, the town of cheerful memories, where kings 
dwelt and once Fair Rosamond was concealed in a 
maze. Here Henry III. was nearly murdered by a false 
priest ; the wretch was caught, and torn to pieces by 
wild horses. Here Edward the Black Prince was born 
and the princess Elizabeth imprisoned by her sister 
Mary. The Puritans were troubled by the tricks of the 
" merrie devil," who turned out to have more of earth 
about him than ghosts generally have. Not one stone 
of the royal palace now remains ; only the name and 
the memories abide. Chaucer would not know his old 
home were he to go back again ; Alfred the Great and 
Henry II. would be lost. 

The words of Camden concerning Oxford have the 
same force and truth now as they had when written in 
the reign of James I. : "A delicate and most beautiful 
city, whether we respect the neatness of private build- 
ings, or the stateliness of publick structures, or the 
healthy and pleasant situation. For the plain on which 
',t stands is walled in, as it were, with hills of wood, 



1 1 6 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

which, keeping out on one side the pestilential south 
wfnd, on the other the tempestuous west, admit only 
the purifying east, and the north, that disperses all un- 
wholsome vapors." 

The city and the university are of considerable antiq- 
uity, but both have been shorn of much of their re- 
puted age. Tradition says that the city was founded 
about a thousand years before the birth of Christ by 
Memphric, king of the ancient Britons, and was named 
Caer-Memphric. Other legends connect it with Brute 
the Trojan and the Druids, but these stories are utterly 
without foundation. In like manner the university has 
been ascribed to Alfred the Great, and some have 
claimed that the place was a seat of learning in pre- 
Roman times ; these stories are also inventions. 

It was in or before the ninth century that a religious 
house was established some few miles from the then an- 
cient Dorchester, the see-town of the great Mercian dio- 
cese, near to the shallow channels close by the confluence 
of the Cherwell and the Isis. The house was dedicated 
to St. Frideswyde, and around it grew a village. A 
school for youth also sprang up in connection with the 
priory. In the latter part of the ninth century it is 
probable a mint was established there, for coins have 
been discovered of that date with the legend " Oksna- 
forda." The earliest undoubted mention of the town is 
in the English Chronicle, under the year 912. From 
that time Oxford speedily rises in importance. The 
kings were frequent visitors; Edward the Elder died 
there in 924 and Edmund Ironsides in 1017, which 
gave rise to the idea that it was an ill thing for a king 
to enter Oxford. The place was besieged and burnt by 



AT OXFORD. 



117 



the Danes in 10 10, and in 10 13 submitted to Sweyn. 
Here, in 1018, the great Canute held a Witanagemot in 
which the laws of Edgar were adopted, and in 1036 here 
Harold I. was crowned. During the reign of Edward 
the Confessor the town continued to flourish, and in 
1067 made a bold, though unsuccessful, resistance to 
William the Conquerer. When taken by him, he gave 
it to Robert d'Oily, who about 107 1 built a castle. In 
1086 the town contained seven hundred and twenty-one 
houses, of which four hundred and seventy-eight had 
been so damaged by the siege nineteen years earlier as 
to be untaxable, and of the mansions one hundred and 
ninety-two were habitable and one hundred and six 
waste. The population was then about seventeen hun- 
dred. But under the strong government of D'Oily the 
place recovered itself, and from that time on occupied a 
high position in the history of England. The seat of 
the Mercian bishopric had long since been removed to 
Lincoln, and it was not till the Reformation that the 
diocese of Oxford was founded. Of the part the city 
took in the great struggles of the reigns of Stephen and 
Charles I. it is unnecessary to speak. Loyalty and con- 
servatism have ever been the distinguishing features of 
Oxford. 

It is probable that the school connected with St. 
Frideswyde's house continued and increased. It was, 
like all monastic schools, simple in its aim and small in 
its scope. The scholars were largely boys. However, 
it is not till the reign of Henry I. that we have certain 
information of the existence and popularity of the 
schools at Oxford. Why teachers and scholars gathered 
there we do not know, nor does the community come 



Il8 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

into prominence before the reign of John. In 1238 the 
schools are spoken of as the University of Oxford, 
though it is not known that there was any charter of 
incorporation. Up to 1268 the university had no build- 
ings of its own ; then the colleges began to come into 
being, and Oxford was recognized as the second uni- 
versity of Christendom. Indeed, the time came when it 
outshone its rival of Paris. 

Notwithstanding the comparatively recent origin of 
the city and the university, one of their first attractions 
is that of age. There is that subtile charm in the very 
atmosphere which only a noble history and a delightful 
romance can give. One becomes conscious that this 
place is the glory of England, enwoven in all that is 
great and soul-quickening in her life, the home and 
source of her intellectual and social power, the shrine 
of exalted and excellent scholarship, and the abode of 
that beneficent spirit which, while ever pressing onward 
into the new, lovingly and gently cherishes and seeks to 
preserve all that is good and true in the old. 

A pity it is that the visitor enters the city by the rail- 
way, for, though the Great Western station stands on 
the site of the ancient abbey of Osney, neither it nor the 
way into the town has any attraction. On the contrary, 
an unfavorable impression is apt to be made, and, instead 
of a quiet, studious-looking place, one is disappointed 
with the bustle and noise of a modern one. Drive along 
the Cowley road and over Magdalen bridge, and nothing 
can exceed the satisfaction which Oxford can give. Stand 
on the old bridge, quaint with its balusters, and look 
upon the still, shaded waters of the Cherwell — a narrow 
stream peaceful beneath the summer sunshine, its smooth 



AT OXFORD. II9 

surface gently rippled by a punt or boat occasionally 
passing up or down, and its onward flow suggesting its 
course from the hills of Warwickshire to the royal river, 
by ancient Banbury and the Confessor's birthplace, Islip, 
into Oxford itself. The building on the right side of 
the street is Magdalen College, the first of many noble 
structures, and the most beautiful of them all. It was 
built by Bishop Waynflete of Winchester about 1480, 
the society having been formally chartered by him some 
years earlier, and was dedicated as " Seinte Marie Maug- 
dalene College to the honor and praise of Christ cruci- 
fied, the Blessed Virgin his Mother, St. Mary Maugda- 
lene and the various apostles and martyrs, the chief of 
whom are patrons of the cathedral of Winchester." 
Among its scholars have been many bishops and states- 
men, not the least of whom was the great Wolsey. Its 
position in the university is supported by its renown and 
its wealth — an annual income from endowments of over 
forty-one thousand pounds and the presentation to forty- 
two benefices. Its most distinguishing architectural fea- 
ture is the stately tower. Here on the morning of May- 
day an ancient and pleasing ceremony is performed. On 
the summit of the tower assemble singers in surplices 
and members of the university. " As the last stroke of 
five dies upon the breeze all heads are reverently uncov- 
ered, and the singers, amid deep silence, pour forth the 
solemn old Latin hymn in honor of the Holy Trinity, 
' Te Deum patrem colimus ;' " after which, the pealing 
bells welcome in the spring. 

It is not possible in the few pages which can be given 
to Oxford to mention, much less speak of, its many 
stately buildings, its halls, colleges and churches and 



120 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

their many historical and architectural features. There 
is not a corner in the older part of the city which is not 
full of interest. Beyond Magdalen, High street opens 
in all its dignity and beauty. On the right in rapid suc- 
cession come St. Edmund's Hall, Queen's College, All 
Souls' College, St. Mary's church and All Saints' church, 
while at the back of these, like choice jewels hid away 
in careful seclusion, are such places as New College, 
Hartford College, the Radcliffe and Bodleian Libraries, 
the theatre, Brasenose, Lincoln, Jesus and Exeter Col- 
leges. The other side of High street has the schools, 
University College and St. Mary's Hall, with Merton, 
Corpus Christi and Oriel Colleges beyond. High street 
is crossed at right angles with Cornmarket and St. Al- 
date's streets, St. Martin's church standing at the inter- 
section. Some distance to the north from this cross, 
known as Carfax, are Baliol, Trinity and St. John's Col- 
leges, the street widening out into the noble tree-lined 
thoroughfare of St. Giles. Hereabouts is the " Martyrs' 
Memorial," a Gothic structure after the fashion of one 
of the Eleanor crosses, in memory of Latimer, Ridley 
and Cranmer. The three martyrs are represented by 
statues placed in the niches. On the north side is the 
following inscription : 

" To the Glory of God, and in grateful commemoration of His 
servants, Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley, Hugh Latimer, Prel- 
ates of the Church of England, who, near this spot, yielded their 
bodies to be burned, bearing witness to the Sacred Truths which 
they had affirmed and maintained against the errors of the Church 
of Rome, and rejoicing that to them it was given not only to be- 
lieve on Christ, but also to suffer for his sake, this monument was 
erected by public subscription, in the year of our Lord God, 
1841." 



AT OXFORD. 121 

Since the memorial was built, while the honesty of Lat- 
imer and the piety of Ridley have remained undenied, 
the character of Cranmer has been severely and to his 
discredit examined, and the cause for which they died 
widely questioned. There is no little irony in the whole 
thing when seen in the light of facts. Oxford has not 
been altogether faithful to the spirit which dictated the 
inscription and raised the monument. The martyrdom 
is supposed to have taken place some short distance 
from the cross, near the corner of Broad street. Lat- 
imer and Ridley were burnt on October 16, 1555. From 
the tower of St. Michael's church, close by, Cranmer 
saw them perish ; he did not hear what the world has 
never forgotten since — the words of good old Latimer : 
" Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man. 
We shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in 
England as I trust shall never be put out." 

It took three loads of wood-fagots and one of furze 
to burn these men ; the total cost of the execution was 
twenty-five shillings. Before the year was out, Dr. 
Palmer, one of the most zealous of their persecutors, 
became a Protestant, and in the following July he suf- 
fered the same penalty. On the 21st of March, 1556, 
a dull, rainy day, Archbishop Cranmer was burnt on 
the same spot, the same stake, chain and staple being 
used, and the cost amounting to twelve shillings. The 
bailiffs of the city charged the government sixty-three 
pounds, but the zeal which was vigorous enough to 
send men to the stake was not so ready to pay the 
charges thereof. Lord Williams of Thame made him- 
self conspicuous by drowning the archbishop's words 
with his shouts of " Make short ! make short !" It was 



122 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

not long before the reactionary party discovered their 
mistake in laying hands upon so 'high a dignitary as 
Cranmer. They erred fatally : from the time the blood 
of the primate of England was shed the return of Eng- 
land to the Roman obedience became impossible. Rome 
stung many a noble soul in those days, but she lost her 
sting when she hurried to death the man who, worthy 
or unworthy, was undoubtedly at the head and front of 
the English Reformation. 

Times were rude and rough, and we must admit the 
fact that Protestants persecuted Romanists as readily as 
their opponents persecuted them : these very men who 
were burnt on the street at Oxford had helped and sanc- 
tioned the martyrdom of others. Both sides regarded 
heresy as the most dangerous of all sins ; stealing meant 
the loss of property, and murder the loss of life, but 
false doctrines involved the ruin of the immortal soul. 
They believed what they professed : what more lauda- 
ble work, then, could there be than the silencing for 
ever of men who were leading people to everlasting 
perdition? We shiver at the recital of the extreme 
deeds done; we could not believe them in any way 
excusable did we not know that even in this our day 
the most amiable feelings and the most friendly inter- 
course possible do not exist between those who follow 
Rome and those who follow Geneva. Which hates and 
dreads the other most it is not easy to say. 

In St. Giles's street is held every September " the holi- 
day of the season," a large business and pleasure fair — 
a veritable relic of other times. The good saint was an 
anchorite in the forest of Languedoc in the seventh cen- 
tury. There he was supported by a hind which came 



AT OXFORD. 123 

daily to give him its milk ; in a similar manner ravens 
fed Elijah at Cherith, and one of the supporters to the 
arms of the city of Edinburgh is the figure of St. Giles's 
hind. He was the patron-saint of cripples and was held 
in great veneration, many churches being dedicated to 
his memory. A good citizen of the Scotch capital once 
bought at a great price an arm-bone of St. Giles. All 
about the hermit himself has long since been forgotten 
by the people who frequent this famous fair, if, indeed, 
they ever knew of him. As of everything else of by- 
gone days, the cry is, " The fair is not what it was." 
The glory has not wholly departed, but it is only the 
old, gray-haired folk who can tell the story of its lost 
splendor — of the times when from all parts of the 
country came the carriers' wains laden with men and 
women, and rustic music livened the place, and stalls 
and shows were many and well frequented, and the 
ale ran like water. 

We turn back to Carfax, and, passing down St. Al- 
date's street, enter the noble quadrangle of Christ 
Church. This is the largest college in Oxford and was 
founded by Cardinal Wolsey. Everything about it bears 
witness to the magnificence of the founder — a man as 
renowned for his tastes in art and architecture and for 
his liberality in the founding of schools as for his ability 
and integrity as a statesman. The massive tower con- 
tains, on the outside, niches, in one of which is a statue 
of the cardinal, and inside a remarkable staircase lead- 
ing up into the glorious dining-hall. This hall is second 
only to those of Westminster and Hampton Court Pal- 
ace. Its roof is lofty and open ; upon the walls hang 
portraits of Christ-Church men — a host such as not 



124 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

only a college, but a nation also, may well be proud of. 
Henry VIII., Queen Elizabeth and Cardinal Wolsey are 
there; Bishop Fell of rhythmic memory, and old 
Schoolmaster Busby, who would not take off his hat 
before the king in the presence of the boys lest they 
should imagine there was a greater man in the realm 
than he, and so discipline come to naught ; the three 
divines who read the Liturgy in the time of its prohi- 
bition under Cromwell ; and many others famous in the 
pages of history. 

A few steps from the hall is the cathedral, an old 
building partly founded upon the site of St. Frideswyde's 
chapel. In its tower are " the bonny Christ-Church 
bells." Outside are the noble and exquisite walks, one 
along the banks of the river, another leading to the 
water, and another — one of the loveliest avenues in 
England — called the Broad Walk. Many are the at- 
tractions of Christ Church ; some will admire " Great 
Tom," the famous bell, and others will love the quiet, 
studious air of the place. 

Oxford has a history as strange as it is interesting, 
but farther into that we may not venture. Even as we 
walk through its quaint streets, so fragrant with the 
aroma of olden time, we have to content ourselves with 
picturing it when in its mediaeval glory — a glory not 
greater than that it has now, only more romantic. But 
there is Godstow, two miles away, in the nunnery of 
which the fair and frail Rosamond spent her last days. 
There is Cumnor Hall, three miles away, where Amy 
Robsart died — murdered, some said, by her unworthy 
husband, the earl of Leicester. And there are other 
spots, each with its own story inwoven in the greater 



AT OXFORD. 125 

thread of England's life. Oxford has had a noble past ; 
its present is of rarest splendor, and its future, edged 
with the radiance flowing down the centuries, will have 
a magnificence unequalled. 

Among the people who in years gone by were known 
at Oxford was one who, though a plain, simple country 
shopkeeper, had no small share of ready wit and keen, 
sharp thought. He lived in a town some twelve or 
more miles away, and to his shop he added the work of 
carrier. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, 
he drove to Oxford and transacted such business as was 
entrusted to him. In the city he put up at the " Crown," 
an old hostel with which Shakespeare was somehow or 
other mixed up. He was a little man, stout, ruddy, 
with small blue eyes, and wore a broad-brimmed beaver, 
a velveteen coat and knee-breeches. His humor was 
great ; such a fact as that which happened in the elec- 
tions of this summer, in which two Irish members, Mr. 
O'Hea and Mr. O'Shea, failed to get re-elected, would 
have furnished him with fun for hours. In the early 
days of the Oxford movement, he, being a man of ex- 
traordinary common sense, proclaimed himself in fullest 
sympathy with the leaders of the party, and many a bat- 
tle he fought behind his counter, in his wagon and over 
his ale concerning a celibate clergy, fasts and services 
on week-days and candles in the sunshine. But he was 
confounded when his rector refused a white model of a 
horse such as veterinary surgeons have in their offices, 
which he in the enthusiasm of his soul gave to the 
church. Why doves, eagles and lambs should be al- 
lowed in the church, and not horses, was a puzzle to 
him — equal in mystery to the fact that ministers in their 



126 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

sermons speak of roses, lilies and stars, but never of 
onions or potatoes. Some of the stories he told jogging 
along the country road from Oxford are too good to 
be forgotten. There was the squire whose keeper 
caught a poacher fishing in his waters. The man had 
a fish in his possession, and the squire sent him to the 
lockup for the night and had the fish stuffed and baked 
for his own breakfast. The same squire's wife grew 
thin under her husband's economy; her dresses were 
being continually taken in by the dressmaker, and the 
dressmaker was being continually taken in by the squire. 
We remember the old story-teller as he passed along the 
streets on market-days, touching his hat to a collegian, 
spying out ancient friends and meditating upon or mak- 
ing a bargain. He knew the corners of the city. A 
merry soul, dead and gone now. 

And this is the sad thing about Oxford, perhaps more 
than elsewhere, the breaking up of old ties and the con- 
stant change of faces. The streets and the buildings re- 
main so much the same that one feels the people should 
remain also ; a short acquaintance, and they change. 
Some men become fixtures — the heads of the colleges, 
the hosts of the inns, the carriers from the neighborhood 
and the shopkeepers. Memories gather around them ; and 
when they go, they are more missed than one can tell. 

The visitor will find Oxford in every sense satisfying 
— a noble city, an atmosphere of scholarship, splendid 
in buildings, 

" Majestic in the moss of time," 

and in every way worthy of the praise which it has 
received. 



CHAPTER VI. 

an ©betting fflSlalfc. 

" There are sunset glories to crown the view 
On the far hill-ranges showered ; 
There are splendors of nearer warmth and hue 
On the homestead tree-embowered." 

There is a direct road to Watlington from Oxford, 
fifteen miles long, pleasant, hilly and traversed twice a 
week by carriers' vans. It passes by the field of Chal- 
grove, where John Hampden received his death-wounds, 
and on which is a monument commemorating that event 
and stating that he fought in defence of the free mon- 
arch and ancient liberties of England. There are also 
the villages of Chiselhampton and Stadhampton, with a 
long and narrow bridge between them spanning the river 
Thame. This bridge is remarkable for its stout angular 
buttresses set against the current and as the scene of a 
prolonged resistance against Prince Rupert on the morn- 
ing of Chalgrove battle. The name of the former vil- 
lage is locally shortened into Chisleton ; in the time of 
Henry III. it was Chevacheeshull Hampton. Our choice 
and purpose, however, led us to take the railway to 
Thame, and from there, in the cool evening, to walk to 
the town of the Watlings. The distance is about nine 
miles ; the road, good and running across a fertile and 
well-wooded country. 

9 127 



128 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

It so chanced that the day was that on which the elec- 
tion of members for South Oxfordshire in the Eleventh 
Parliament of Her Majesty Queen Victoria was held, 
and, as we were greatly interested in one of the par- 
ties — it is immaterial which — we did not fail to take 
notice of the life and activity which such an occasion 
everywhere brings forth. The usually quiet road was 
lively with carts, wagons and carriages laden with voters 
returning from the polls. Boisterous songs and loud 
hurrahs disturbed the peace of one of the loveliest of 
England's lovely summer eventides. The contrast was 
great between the noisy, half-drunken patriots and the 
still, golden sunlight which streamed through the high 
hedges and the tree-tops — so gentle, calm and restful, 
lighting birds and squirrels home to their nests and bid- 
ding the deer in the park seek shelter beneath the oaks 
for the night. It is a fact that in England beer and pa- 
triotism go together — a fact curious, but not unique : it 
is said to occur elsewhere. Possibly the vote is more 
honest when the voter is far enough gone in his cups 
not to know how to mark his ballot-paper — when he for- 
gets whether the cross opposite the candidate's name 
means " For " or " Against." At such a time he is not 
open to argument or to bribery — though, so far as we 
could learn, no party was guilty of offering either. He 
becomes tremendously and unshakably loyal to the Crown 
and the Constitution ; his voice and his influence go for 
things as they are, Church and State, queen and royal 
family, the Union and the House of Lords ; hence the 
Liberals strive to make him sober, for they have no 
chance with him when he is drunk, and the Conserva- 
tives try to make him drunk, for they can do nothing 



AN EVENING WALK. 1 29 

with him when he is sober. John Bull may be, in com- 
mon with most men, an animal, but he is at least a grate- 
ful one : he never forgets the considerate body who gives 
him a juicy mutton-chop or an overflowing muggin of 
stout. 

The Conservative modus operandi is more praiseworthy 
than at first sight may appear. Autolycus sang, "A 
quart of ale is a dish for a king ;" and Armorer Horner's 
neighbor touched that worthy aright when he exclaimed, 
" Here's a pot of good double beer, neighbor; drink, and 
fear not your man." Nor is the spirit of malt stayed at sim- 
ulating royalty or creating valiancy : Camden tells us that 
the secret of the longevity of the English is their an- 
cient, peculiar and very wholesome barley- wine, and in 
a rare tract of the seventeenth century it is said that beer 
well brewed, of a low, pure amber color, clear and spark- 
ling, is necessary not only for the poor, who commonly 
eat such things as afford little or bad nourishment, but 
is also most powerful to expel poisonous infections. 
Through mediaeval and into post-Reformation times 
the wardens — who were oftentimes women — brewed and 
supplied the ale consumed by the people in the church 
nave or yard on Sundays and holy days, and down to 
Queen Anne's reign, and in some places much later, 
while the parson and the squire had their twice-baked 
bread and their thirst-slaking potion between the ante- 
communion and the sermon, nonconformists, both min- 
isters and deacons, accepted the necessity of similar 
cereal refreshment before and after their services. Even 
at funerals it was found efficacious in inducing an appro- 
priate and becoming sorrow or in staying an inordinate 
and troublesome grief. There were some — as did they 



130 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

who made a certain return to King Edward VI. — who 
spoke against 4< the wicked weed called hops," but, on 
the whole, so convinced were our forefathers of the use- 
fulness of ale that in the year 1577, about which time 
inns, taverns and alehouses were an acknowledged social 
nuisance and the population of England did not exceed 
four millions, there were over sixteen thousand of them 
in the kingdom. Nay, in a remote antiquity, the fathers 
of Valhalla taught by example these virtues and mys- 
teries ; for the Alvismal says of this old British Kwrw, 
this Spicigenam Bromon of Julian the Apostate, " it is 
called ale among men, and among the gods beer." Now 
add to all this the political power of the beverage, and 
who shall say the Conservatives are at fault ? If beer 
helps to make men grateful, kinglike, brave, healthy, re- 
ligious, decorous, hilarious, followers of the gods, and, 
above all, to deprive them of the skill to plot and to 
plan against the powers that be, is it not both kind and 
wise to give them of it plentifully ? It is true, besides 
these things, it will enable some to see the snakes come 
out of the bones of those who lie in tombs, for serpents 
grow of human marrow, according to P. Ovidius Naso ; 
but Chuang Tzu, a philosopher of the Flowery Land, 
four hundred years before our era, observed that the 
mental equilibrium of a drunken man is undisturbed, 
the ordinary ideas of life, death and fear find no place in 
his breast, and were he to fall out of a cart, though he 
might suffer, yet he would not die. Unconscious of rid- 
ing in the cart, he is equally unconscious of falling out 
of it. Tell me, which would you rather have on your 
doorstep or in your cellar, a man with a can of beer or a 
man with a can of dynamite ? Well, one set of politi- 



AN EVENING WALK. 131 

cians uses the one, and another set the other, to carry 
out their measures for the good of society ; the one, ad- 
mittedly, is apt to deface the most glorious work of 
God's hands, but the other is likely to destroy the most 
glorious works of man's hands, and you into the bar- 
gain. I imagine that all dabblers in the art of govern- 
ment are divided into two classes, even as Hamlet di- 
vided the question of existence, To-be and Not-to-be. 
Beer helps the one, and dynamite the other — only in the 
extremes, to be sure, but then it is the extremes who do 
the work. The one would leave the country very much 
as they found it ; the other would make it such as no 
State has ever been either in heaven above or in the 
earth beneath or in the wa — Stop ! I am not so sure 
about the third place. Milton and Dante have had 
something to say concerning those regions, and a good 
man once told me that Satan was a radical, a disturber 
and a restless mischief-maker. He may use explosives 
in his domain ; he certainly does not use malt beverages. 
Among the To-be's the opposite prevails. They employ 
strong, wholesome ale which makes one incapable of 
such gross and violent wickedness. The evidences 
which we saw that quiet evening in the road from 
Thame to Watlington showed beyond a doubt that the 
Conservatives had done their best to save the country. 
Events proved their wisdom and strength : the Union 
was preserved and Mr. Gladstone retired to Hawarden. 
Now, what I mean, if you will allow me to talk about 
such things as we walk along this still road, so glorious- 
ly arched and shaded with the noblest of trees, is this : 
In the English elections beer wins. Speaking algebrai- 
cally, beer is the x y the unknown quantity and the all- 



132 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

prevailing factor ; whichever party uses it the most free- 
ly will succeed. The Liberals may be well-meaning 
enough, but they cannot approach the Conservatives 
in this respect — that is to say, when the Conservatives 
get desperate. Neither can give the voter anything 
before the election, but afterward the humor of the 
thing twinkles in his eye as he looks upon the nine- 
gallon keg of beer in his cellar. The innkeeper can 
also in a good-natured, off-hand sort of way refrain 
from taking payment for his supplies to the free and 
independent man, and later on present his little bill to 
the steward of the candidate. Nobody, surely, can ob- 
ject to a rich man paying his poor neighbor's debts. 
Moreover, another item comes in. Suppose a wealthy 
land-owner — and I am speaking exclusively of the 
country — desires to get his eldest son into Parlia- 
ment : it is evident that the tenant-farmers will be 
anxious to please and propitiate their landlord, and 
the laborers their master, by loyalty at the polls. 
There is such a thing as raising the rent or refusing 
improvements, of lowering wages or discharging men, 
when things do not go as they in superior position 
would have them go. Not that I would imply that 
there is a peer or a squire — from Land's End to the 
house of the judicious Dutchman who in the reign of 
James IV. settled the question of precedency among 
his nine sons by having nine doors made to his cot- 
tage, one for each son, and a round table for them all 
— who would trouble himself whether his tenants went 
one way or the other ; but as on board ship the mate is 
more to the men than is the captain, so on an estate the 
landlord's great man is greater to the tenants than is 



AN EVENING WALK. 1 33 

the landlord himself. And the landlord's great man 
can make things very comfortable or very uncomfort- 
able pretty much at his own sweet will, and as surely as 
two and two make four he looks out for the way the 
people vote. It is human nature ; perhaps in another 
world two and two may make five, and then things will 
be different. 

Nor are the farm-laborers of England the most intel- 
ligent of mortals. I have said something illustrative of 
this elsewhere; now I only need add that the legend 
of " Three Acres and a Cow " of the previous election 
was not wholly without foundation. It will be remem- 
bered that some Radical candidate, speaking of the 
golden age when the principles he was advocating 
shall have triumphed, illustrated his description of the 
workingman's plenty by promising him three acres and 
a cow. I suppose he had figured up how far the land 
and the cattle would go, and made this out to be each 
man's share. It was a bit of rhetoric, possibly true 
enough as such things go, but it was interpreted to 
mean that each voter should have so munificent a gift 
provided the candidate got into Parliament. Crafty 
election agents worked to some advantage on this 
misinterpretation. At not a few places — for instance, 
in the Evesham division — a black cow was drawn 
around in a wagon to show the laborers the prize 
they would have. Cans of milk reputed to be the 
produce of such cow were freely distributed. In- 
quiries were made as to where or when the voters 
would like their three acres, and every man was led to 
believe that he would soon have a share in the parson's 
tithe and the squire's wealth. So the Radical candidate 



134 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

got into Parliament, but Ireland remained unsatisfied : 
the golden age did not appear, and the constituents 
went without their promised reward. They remem- 
bered that fact at this time ; and as Israel thought of 
the fleshpots and the onions of Egypt, so they called to 
mind the flavor and the potency of old-time Conser- 
vative ale. As to the principles at stake or the con- 
sequences involved in the election they knew little and 
cared less. The Irish were to them naught but dis- 
turbers of the peace, enemies of the queen, benighted 
potato-eaters in a rainy and whiskey-loving island. 
Mr. Gladstone encouraged them in their rebellion ; so 
the parson said and so the squire said ; and the squire 
ought to know the facts and the parson to speak the 
truth. 

Perhaps if the" Invincibles" — whoever they are — would 
give the English people information of the wrongs and the 
wishes of the Emerald Isle instead of giving them nitro- 
glycerine, the aspect of affairs would be materially changed. 
As it is, the country-folk of the Midlands know no more 
of Tipperary than of Kwang-tung, nor of Mr. Parnell 
than of Abdul Hamid II. Not that the Irish are by 
any means silent elsewhere. Their voices are heard in 
all lands, and three hundred years ago there was an 
old opinion among them that the man who in the 
clamor and outcry which was made at the beginning 
of a battle did not shout and scream as loudly as the 
rest was suddenly snatched from the ground and car- 
ried flying to the lonely valleys of Kerry, there to eat 
grass and to lap water, with no sense of misery or of 
happiness, speechless, forsaken, till caught by the hunt- 
ers and brought back to his own home. For some gen- 



AN EVENING WALK. 1 35 

erations there is no record of any Hibernian passing 
through this penance — certainly not during the present 
century. They who believe in the Anglo-Israel theory 
put down the Irish as the Canaanites, but though, ac- 
cording to William Camden, there was once a great 
West-Meath chieftain who declared he would not learn 
English lest it should set his mouth awry, they speak 
the language with a sweeter brogue and a more charm- 
ing vivacity than do even the people of the hill-country 
of the West Riding. It is well to remember that Ireland 
owes her connection with England largely to the good 
pope who handed her over to the Angevin king. Was 
the Holy Father acting ex cathedra that time? Speak not 
evil of dignities ; undoubtedly the English are the bet- 
ter papists of the two : they recognize what the supreme 
pontiff did in the matter. Of all this, however, the agri- 
cultural folk were, and still are, ignorant ; all they know 
is that Irish laborers come into English harvest-fields, 
and that Ireland is a wicked and rebellious land. Hence 
their solid vote. 

Feelings one way or the other run high everywhere. 
A story is told — I am not responsible for its truth — of a 
Wesleyan brother who prayed fervently for his beloved 
and ideal statesman : " O Lord, grant that in these troub- 
lous times our talented Mr. Gladstone and his followers 
may hang together." — "Amen!" said an equally fervid 
Conservative brother in the congregation ; " amen ! God 
grant they may hang together." The preacher thought 
he had made a mistake somehow ; so he went on : " I 
mean, Lord, that they may hang together in accord and 
concord ;" to which the other responded, " I don't care 
what cord it is, but, Lord, let them hang together." 



I36 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Well, the elections did not hang them, merely suspended 
them. 

Some ask, "Are the farm-laborers fit for the fran- 
chise ?" I do not think it is so much a question of fit- 
ness as of power : Can they freely exercise it ? Social 
conditions are against them, money is against them, and 
the tyranny of money is worse than was ever the tyr- 
anny of a feudal lord. He at least had some kind of a 
conscience, but gold has none — nor commercial corpo- 
rations, nor political caucuses. I do not believe the 
country masses have ever been really heard, or that they 
will be for long years to come. They cannot speak ; 
would things be better if such as they did speak ? It is 
a curious fact that the town artisan looks down upon the 
village hind with even greater contempt and scorn than 
that with which the noble regards the merchant. The 
man who nails the shoe on the horse's feet thinks him- 
self altogether better than the man who follows the horse 
along the furrow. There are gradations fine and subtile, 
class upon class, but they are all-powerful. The wheel- 
wright and the wagoner or the carpenter and the shep- 
herd will not associate together more than is necessary. 
Hence the wide gulf between the breaker of stones by 
the roadside and the dweller within the stone walls of the 
mansion is bridged over by innumerable sorts and con- 
ditions of men, each a step higher than the other — per- 
haps an almost imperceptible step, but making it next to 
impossible that the one should do without the other or 
the one should war against the other. 

But it is little short of sin to waste a lovely evening 
along such a road as we are walking by discussing such 
dry and threadbare subjects. On our left is Thame 



AN EVENING WALK. I 37 

Park, once and for a long time the home of Lady Wen- 
man. Here was formerly an abbey, founded — or, rather, 
translated — by Alexander, the magnificent bishop of 
Lincoln and lord of the manor of Thame, in 1138, to 
atone for his extravagance in castle-building. As this 
and other like " works of satisfaction " came out of the 
revenues of the Church, the merit was not all that it 
might have been. He took an important part in the 
troubles of the reign of Stephen, and, though said to be 
kindly in heart and cheerful in countenance, was as no- 
torious for his worldliness as for his statesmanship and 
energy. His rapacity was almost boundless ; his pomp, 
more secular and military than ecclesiastical, was the 
marvel of the age. He was present at that momentous 
visit to the pope in 11 25 when the archbishop of Canter- 
bury, in order to secure the supremacy of his see, ac- 
cepted legatine authority and thus placed the Church of 
England under vassalage to the court of Rome. One 
of his successors, Henry Lexington, in the reign of 
Henry III. brought the great road, which before lay on 
one side of Thame, through the middle of it, and thus 
gave prosperity to the town. The abbey was colonized 
from the first Cistercian house in England, at Waverley, 
in Surrey, being, as the saying then went, one of the 
four daughters of that establishment and the mother of 
another house at Bindon, in Dorset. At the time of the 
dissolution it had a yearly revenue of two hundred and 
fifty-six pounds. The Cistercians were great farmers, 
frugal, taciturn and in some ways more austere than 
other branches of the great Benedictine family. They 
were of Burgundian origin ; their houses were all of in- 
dependent and equal rank, dedicated to St. Mary ; and 



I38 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

when a new site was to be occupied, an abbot and twelve 
brethren were sent forth for that purpose. Within the 
century in which Alexander built this house the order 
became all-powerful and embraced eight hundred of the 
richest abbeys of Europe. The white-robed fathers no 
longer walk the cloisters or the glades as of old, but 
some vestiges of their buildings remain. Part of the 
present house was built in the fifteenth century, and the 
drawing-room by Robert, the last abbot and the first 
bishop of Oxford. There is a chapel where for a long 
time the services have been well rendered by a surpliced 
choir. Lady Wenman was both fond and proud of her 
singers and paid them well. The congregation consisted 
of her own people, and a quarter of a century since 
strangers thought it a privilege and a pleasure to be al- 
lowed to worship once in a while in a place where art 
and decorum united to make devotion beautiful and 
attractive. 

A walk through the park presents many pleasing 
views, and they who love well-laid-out grounds, wide 
stretches of sward set with clumps of broad oaks, deep 
copses where the pheasant roosts and the rabbit burrows, 
and the many charms which surround the stately homes 
of England's gentry, will meet with their heart's delight 
here. The high hedges and the closed gates at the lodge 
remind one that the place is private, but, as the people 
hereabouts are able to distinguish fairly well between a 
poacher and a tourist, it is possible to obtain admittance. 
A few hundred yards from the lodge gate, farther along 
the road, a young man met his death. It was on a sum- 
mer day, about the year 1857. A thunderstorm came 
on; the rain fell in torrents and the lightning flashed 



AN EVENING WALK. 



139 



fiercely. He sought shelter under a wayside tree — this 
opposite to us is likely the very one — and when the 
next traveller came by, he saw a huge limb rent off the 
tall oak and on the burnt grass a charred and lifeless 
corpse. There was great excitement in Thame, where 
the unfortunate youth belonged, and for a long time, 
when a thunderstorm occurred, people were more assid- 
uous than ever in turning their mirrors to the wall and 
covering their knives and their scissors. Probably few 
events affected the town more than this since the year 
of grace 970, when Oskytel, archbishop of York, died 
there. 

In the ditches there are stinging-nettles and on the 
high ground there are windmills ; both are supposed to 
be indicative of fertility and prosperity. The land that 
can produce the one and needs the other is not a desert. 
A man in search of a farm would be guided somewhat 
by them, and certainly hereabouts the country abounds 
in rich soil and in the time of harvest the fields stand 
thick with corn. In bygone days country-people made 
use of the nettle. Its tops they used as a vegetable like 
spinach, its leaves in sickness to blister the skin and its 
fibre to make string or rope. Nevertheless, it is a nui- 
sance, in secluded spots growing six feet high and with 
jungle-like density. Touch it softly and it wounds; 
seize it firmly and it is harmless. The sheep carry its 
seeds in their fleeces; hence it grows luxuriantly in 
churchyards, where they are often put to graze. It 
seems to love loneliness, like the windmill. Of all the 
weird, melancholy solitudes man can find, the dreariest, 
the most monotonous and brain-bewildering, is the 
neighborhood of a windmill. The roar and rush of the 



140 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

storm, the sob and moan of the breeze, have an unearthly 
sound, at times like unto the shrieking of demons, at 
times like the wail of pain, the deep sigh of the saddened, 
hopeless grief of lost souls. In the dusky twilight the 
huge thing stands against the sky like a black spectre ; 
in the busy day, when the wind sweeps briskly along, its 
great gaunt arms turn over and over with that supreme 
indifference to all things else, that constant, laborious 
regularity, which irritates the calmest nerve. No won- 
der the valorous Don Quixote was stirred to the depths 
of his chivalrous soul when he saw the outrageous giants 
in the plain. One asks if the men who live there are 
not among the strange fellows Nature has framed in her 
time. 

See the sun-glory on yonder hills ! How the golden 
light flows across the greenwood and the grassy and 
furze-spotted clearings ! Here the road runs into the 
great London highway, and as we enter it we leave be- 
hind us a small post-village which in its ancient name 
of Tetsworth suggests a British origin and the Celtic 
worship of Teutates. A little way on is the hamlet of 
Postcomb — only a few cottages and a roadside inn which 
has long since passed its usefulness, and kind Time, it is 
hoped, will speedily relieve the place of the unsightly 
encumbrance. A trap stands before the door ; a thin, 
starved-looking cur is prowling around the open space 
in front ; the windows are without decent shades, some 
with a yellow-stained sheet pinned up to hide the naked- 
ness within, and some with a broken pane or two stuffed 
with rags ; the doorsteps are displaced, mossy and dirty, 
and through the open passage comes the gabble of men 
at their cups. There is no romance about the dingy, 



AN EVENING WALK. 



141 



tumble-down, frowsty place. It is a relief to get into 
the footpath across the fields to Lewknor. The air fresh 
from the waving corn brightens one's soul and makes 
one rejoice in the goodness of Nature. The wheat is 
just turning from its fresh green into its rich russet, and 
the gnats play in swarms near the hedgerows and under 
the trees. Here the path runs beside one of the water- 
cress streams for which Lewknor is known, and a little 
farther it passes through the churchyard into the high- 
way. 

The church at Lewknor is built of flint with quoins 
of ashlar and has a Decorated chancel, a brass of the 
fourteenth century and a Norman font. The place gives 
its name to the hundred in which it is situate, and the 
name may have come from the ancient family of Lewke- 
nors. It differs little from the quiet and secluded vil- 
lages around, but it has two features which attract atten- 
tion — viz., a great watercress-bed close by the turnpike, 
and a lich-gate leading into the graveyard. They who 
have eaten of the cress and they who have seen the gate 
will not forget either. Under the latter, as in the days 
of old and as its name indicates, the bearers set the 
corpse until the priest meets it, according to the office 
for burial. A short distance beyond Lewknor is the 
road leading down to Shirbourne. Had we time, and 
were not the evening so far gone, we might turn aside 
to that little village and see therein an ancient moated 
castle. The present structure dates from 1377, Dut an 
earlier one was built in the reign of William I. by Robert 
d'Oily, to whom the Conqueror had granted Shirbourne. 
After the reign of Edward III. it passed successively 
into various families — among them, that of the Quarter- 



142 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

mains, a noble house having both power and position 
throughout this district, but becoming extinct in the 
time of Henry VIII. The last of the Quartermains, 
dying childless, gave his Shirbourne estate to the child 
of his steward, who sold it to the Chamberlains, an ancient 
family which so named themselves from the office their 
ancestors held to the dukes of Normandy. A lady of 
this family defended the castle against the Parliamentary 
forces during the Carolingian troubles. Later on, in the 
beginning of the last century, it was bought by Thomas 
Parker, a member of a junior line of a family dating 
from the reign of Richard II. He was a successful 
lawyer, a Hanoverian, and was made lord chancellor and 
earl of Macclesfield by George I. for his loyalty and 
ability. His leaning to astronomical and mathematical 
research led him to establish an observatory, which, 
though it may not have done much for the advancement 
of science, certainly advanced two poor men to fame and 
to honor. Phelps the stable-boy and Bartlett the shep- 
herd are not unknown in the bead-roll of English 
astronomers. The castle is chiefly Perpendicular in 
style, crenellated, nearly square, with round towers at 
the corners, is defended by a drawbridge and portcullis, 
and differs little from its appearance in the fourteenth 
century. Upon the wide moat swans swim in all their 
stateliness. Inside, the building has an armory, two 
libraries, many valuable books and manuscripts and 
some very fine portraits. Among the latter are those of 
Erasmus, Archbishop Laud and Queen Katherine Parr. 
Under the portrait of the last named is a lock of hair 
cut from the head of the queen when her coffin was 
opened at Sudley Castle in the year 1799. In the year 



AN EVENING WALK. I43 

1294, Brunetto Latini, the tutor of Dante, slept in the 
castle of Shirbourne on his way from London to Ox- 
ford ; at that time, he says, the rough hills were infested 
with robbers. Six hundred years have made a great 
change in the social order of England, and yet standing 
before that old castle it is easy to recall the days when 
men-at-arms guarded the bridge, and archers manned 
the battlements, and at the bidding of the baron mailed 
knights wielded battle-axe and lance. The glory of a 
Warwick or of a Kenilworth is not here : everything is 
less magnificent, less entrancing ; but a building such as 
this, five hundred years old, is not without interest and 
history. It, indeed, reminds us of days of splendor and 
romance, when imagination had not been shorn of its 
wings or stripped of its glories, and men strove for un- 
sullied honor and pure truth rather in chivalric enter- 
prise than in the paths of trade and commerce. Force 
mildly tempered with guile then ; guile mildly tempered 
with force now. It also reminds us of days when the 
weak were helpless against the strong, when the villain 
was the serf of his lord and the slave of his soil, when 
king and barons struggled for supremacy and men did 
largely what was right in their own eyes, when the 
mighty met on thirsty battlefields and the rich left of 
their wealth for priests to say masses for their stained 
and suffering souls. In the days, for instance, of 
Stephen, when Shirbourne had its share in the troubles, 
the castles were at once the oppressors and the pro- 
tectors of the people : the hand of their lord was against 
every man, but he suffered no man to touch his de- 
pendants. In their mud cottages they clustered around 
his stronghold, the old folks glad to labor if they might 
10 



144 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

but save for their sustenance a portion of their crops, 
the young men proud to serve as retainers in the bands 
of their chief. Life was probably less severe and irk- 
some than we imagine; there was an interdependence 
binding all into one. When Wat was among the cross- 
bowmen, or little Robin helped to clean the armor, or 
Cis to serve in the lady's bower or to work in the 
laundry, there was a direct link between the castle 
and the cabin ; the one depended upon the other. The 
castle needed men and food ; the cabin, protection. In 
all likelihood the villagers were as proud and as de- 
sirous of the success of their lord as subjects are now 
for the honor of their king. Not that the life within the 
baronial halls was the purest and the gentlest : purity 
and gentleness must be sought for in the monastery, and 
not in the castle; but it was hearty, free and jovial. 
People were rude and rough, yet they were closer in 
their interests to one another than we are in our day. 
They recognized the principle that all men are unequal ; 
we think them equal, and absolve ourselves and all 
others from those responsibilities which the high and 
the lowly observed under the old system. Possibly we 
shall make a better world of it than our fathers did ; 
whether a happier is another question. Any way, Shir- 
bourne Castle is now a quiet, harmless residence ; per- 
sonal loyalty is no longer asked for nor given ; the earl 
is liberal to his tenants and kind to his poor : the one 
pay their rent to his steward, the other buy their rabbits 
from his gamekeeper. The neighborhood is as rich and 
diversified in scenery as the castle is stern and imposing 
in structure. Chaunt a lay of the olden time, recall a 
scene of Froissart or a page of Chaucer, and you may 



AN EVENING WALK. 1 45 

see merry and mediaeval England alike in the swelling, 
beech-clad hills of Chiltern and in the towers and the 
turrets of Shirbourne. 

As the twilight darkens, the moon floods the country 
with her silvery beams. Beyond this long wall is the 
road leading to Pyrton, a small village with an Eliza- 
bethan mansion where Hampden's father-in-law lived. 
Another field and a close, and Watlington begins. 
Asleep, is it ? It is scarcely more awake when the sun 
is shining. While we eat our supper and take our ease 
in the hotel, and to-morrow ramble about the place, I 
will tell you something of it. The chicken and the ale 
evidently belong to an uncertain age — a good quality in 
the latter, even if not in the former — but the cold mutton 
with Worcestershire sauce is all that a good appetite can 
desire. Mine host is busy, and the next sun will shine 
upon some aching heads and empty pockets. Any way, 
there will be no such wild riot here as that student in 
good-fellowship hight Philip Foulface of Alefoord de- 
scribed in his black-letter quarto entituled Bacchus 
Bountie. Then the thirsty sinners, prepared beforehand 
with such mouth-seasoning as red herring, broiled bacon 
and hot-spiced pudding, passed on from merriment to 
riot, and from riot to wrestling and war, till, exhausted, 
both wounded and drunken, they lay in heaps on the 
floor. Nothing of that will happen now. The landlord 
values his reputation and the constable moves about as 
nimbly as a dog's tail. There is a house with a yard not 
far from this — we passed it as we entered the town — 
which was many years since occupied by a wheelwright. 
A jovial, happy-go-lucky sort of fellow was he, a work- 
man of the first rank, well-to-do, employing several men 



I46 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

and apprentices and holding some respect and position 
in the neighborhood. He made most of the wagons and 
the carts used hereabouts, and once a year, after a season 
of good work, he gave a supper to his friends and work- 
men, his best customers also being invited. Instead of 
the smoking hoop of the wheel, the boys saw the vapor- 
ous offrisings of the big boiler into which every Monday 
throughout the year was put the washed linen of the 
household, but which now contained hams, legs of mut- 
ton and rounds of beef, carrots, potatoes and cabbage. 
It also served for brewing-purposes. The huge plum- 
puddings had been prepared for several days ; and when 
the table in the great parlor was set, the good and solid 
things thereon made the round eyes of the guests glisten 
and their fat faces broaden with delight. What eating 
and drinking, to be sure ! The stout little gentleman 
of the hub and the spoke wielded his great carving-knife 
and fork at the head of the table as dexterously as he 
was wont to swing the hammer at the anvil or the axe 
at the block. The beaded moisture of warmth and effort 
combined with the glowing beams of satisfaction to make 
his countenance ruddy and radiant. His hospitality was 
boundless, nor did he reach the acme of his joy till he 
knew that every one around his board was stuffed to the 
full, and that even the rubicund and ale-soaked farmers 
were so far gone as to need somebody to see them safely 
home. For one or two of his neighbors a wheelbarrow 
stood in the yard, and about midnight the good-natured 
apprentices would bowl them off to their domiciles with 
right hearty glee. Sir Walter Raleigh in a letter to Wil- 
liam Shakespeare affirms that a kinsman made the new 
herb from the Chesapeake into tea ; but had he seen this 



AN EVENING WALK. \ 47 

worthy wheelwright going through the soothing gri- 
maces of puffing and drawing at a pipe filled and yet un- 
lighted, and according to his own solemn affirmation, often 
reiterated, with satisfaction equal to that of those who 
applied the glowing coal or the blazing chip, he would 
have foreseen the ruin of the plantations of the West. 
There was merriment, you may be sure — an echo of the 
harvest-home and of the good times when hospitality 
and kindly feeling prevailed throughout the merry land. 
Songs were sung — two or three harmless ones before the 
women left, and then such as " The Bashful Lover " and 
one in " Praise of Claret," of which it need only be said 
that after a popularity of several generations the mod- 
esty and the purity of our age banished them from among 
men. Stories were also told — stories, for the most part, 
with more than a point in them, and which may not be 
repeated in days when no one cares to hear such things. 
That was the time to see the real side : we have passed 
by it all ; and no one thought any the worse of the good 
souls who mingled merriment with religion and sang in 
the bar-room on Saturday and in the organ-loft on Sun- 
day. Later on everybody went to bed — that is to say, 
everybody except the apprentices, whose couch in the 
attic being occupied by visitors from over Chinnor way 
obliged them to sleep on the floor with the dogs before 
the kitchen fire. 

Among the guests there was for some years one who 
enjoyed the sobriquet of Tippling John. He was a decent, 
sleek-looking old boy of about forty-five, and did not get 
his nickname from his turning up his little finger, but 
from his skill in rendering an old melody upon the charms 
of drinking. He had travelled a little and read much. 



I48 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

He wore corduroy breeches with home-knit blue-worsted 
stockings and buckled shoes ; his waistcoat was of crim- 
son plush and his frock of dark-brown velvet. A great 
turnip-watch and a good-sized snuff-box gave him some 
influence among his fellows. His ability as a story-teller 
was good, and he claimed to have known something of 
the dowager countess of Macclesfield, who maintained 
the state and the dignity which became a lady of rank 
in the days of yore in a lodge on a spur of the hills 
within sight of Shirbourne Castle. It is probable that 
he was rather confused in his recollections, but as he 
affirmed that she was a good lady, fond of whist, wine 
and the diverting story of Pamela, but nevertheless a 
good lady, none of his stories of the lodge affected her 
reputation. She had a weakness for mushrooms and 
poachers — at any rate, she loved the one and hated the 
other — and kept the gamekeepers busy searching for 
them. But Tippling John's best story did not concern 
her in the remotest degree, and fortunately, for everybody 
had a suspicion that he knew nothing at all about the 
earl's family. This he only told when fairly on his way 
to maudlin exhilaration, and it had the effect of sobering 
him and subduing his exuberant spirits. The story ran 
something like this (draw up to the fire and take another 
pipe ; the nights are chilly, though it is July, and, the 
pipe and story over, then to bed) : 

One dark stormy night many years ago — long before 
you and I, Joe Wiggins, began to play nine men's mor- 
ris — Parson Jones was on his way home from an oyster- 
feast. Clergymen in those days were very partial to oys- 
ters, and with good reason, for the British oyster was fa- 
mous in the days of the apostles, and large quantities of 



AN EVENING WALK. 



149 



the exquisite delicacy were then sent to Rome. Parson 
Jones did not know this, nor even of the grand oyster- 
suppers his predecessors indulged in before the Reforma- 
tion began, and he went jogging along on his old sorrel, 
thinking only of where he had been and where he was 
going. It was easier to decide the former than it was 
the latter ; for when he approached the river which lay 
between him and his home, he found that the water had 
risen high up the road and was rushing and roaring over 
the fields and the bridge at a terrific speed. The mare 
stood on the brink of the flood, and Parson Jones for- 
got all about the oysters. Then he determined to ride 
on, knowing that the bridge had fairly high walls and 
horses were by instinct good swimmers; so into the 
water he went, splashing along as fast as the mare 
would go. But the flood was higher than he thought 
for, and before he reached the bridge the water rose over 
the stirrups ; in a few minutes the mare was swimming 
— where, he could not tell, for the night was pitchy 
dark, and, to add to his confusion, the rain began to 
fall in driving torrents. The water surged around him, 
but he rode smoothly on. 

" Bother the oysters !" he said to himself. " No more 
oysters for me in this world. Where's the confounded 
bridge ? — Gently, Betty my girl ; strike bottom. — Is it 
across the stream, or is it down the stream ?" 

At the thought of this he began to shiver, for you 
must know he was but a young fellow, and, though he 
had no wife, he had a very good living. His boots 
were filled with water and his clothes wringing wet. 
He tried to mutter a prayer, but could think of nothing 
except " My godfathers and my godmothers in my bap- 



150 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

tism," and that kept coming up again and again — why, 
he could not tell. He was certain he was drifting down 
the stream, and that he was lost sure enough. 

" My godfathers and my godmothers in my baptism — " 
he kept on saying, without thinking. " There! the 
mare is only floating now. My godfathers and my god- 
mothers in my baptism — I shall be drowned ; I am 
getting weaker alt the time. My godfathers and my 
godmothers in my baptism — Confound oysters and 
oyster-feasts ! My legs are freezing. There goes my 
hat! Oh, my godfathers and my godmothers in my 
baptism — " 

And thus he went on, his heart in his boots, as the 
saying is, and afraid every moment he would slip off 
the mare or she would sink and take him down. 

But Providence looks after good men such as he, and 
it was decreed that Parson Jones should escape. He 
had drifted on for three-quarters of an hour, when in 
mid-stream, right before him, he saw a light. It was 
almost level with the water, and he remembered there 
was a mill a long way below the bridge. He shouted 
with all his might, but no answer. He pulled the bridle, 
and the sorrel began to swim again. Then he saw that 
the light shone through a window, and in a minute or 
two he was floating beside it. 

" Let me in I" he cried, rattling the panes ; and some 
one lifted the sash. 

A leap : he was on the sill, and the mare was gone. 
It was no easy task lifting himself up through the nar- 
row space ; a desperate effort landed him safely inside. 
By the candlelight he saw a young woman standing 
beside some bags of flour. Her face was white. 



AN EVENING WALK. 151 

" Where am I ?" Parson Jones asked. 

" In Redford mill, and I am glad somebody has 
come, for I am all alone and the water is rising. 
Father and the man went to Beckett's farm this morn- 
ing, and now they cannot get back. The water is over 
the second floor. Who are you ?" 

" I am John Jones, the rector, and I have been car- 
ried down here from the bridge." 

"Mr. Jones, the minister, that is. Then I am not 
going to be afraid any more." 

But the water rose fast. It entered the story where 
they were. 

" Is there anything higher than this ?" asked the 
parson. 

" Only the garret, and there are rats there." 

" Never mind ; we must try it." 

They went up into the garret ; it was small and stifling. 
In the candlelight they saw the place covered with rats. 
They stood on the landing, not venturing among the 
nibblers, though the poor things were terrified to help- 
lessness. The candle burnt low ; the river steadily rose. 

" Is there a skylight ?" asked Parson Jones. 

" Just behind you." 

" Then we must get out on the roof; that is our last 
chance. My godfathers and my — Bother the thing ! 
Let me help you up, and then I can clamber through." 

So he lifted the girl up, and by dint of great exertion 
he followed. They sat in the pelting rain by the chim- 
ney on the roof-ridge. The great flood surged and 
sobbed on every side — a weird sound. 

" I suppose in Noah's flood people had to do as we 
are doing," said Madge, after a long silence. 



152 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

" Oh, my godfa — Confound that ! Yes, my child, I 
suppose they had. Only they all got drowned; and 
when Noah looked out of the ark, he saw them floating 
like reeds on the water. My godfathers and — " 

" And there was no one to bury them ?" 

" No ; they were not Christians." 

Another silence. 

" Madge !" whispered the parson. 

There was no answer. 

" Madge !" 

Still no answer. 

" Is she dead ?" 

Parson Jones touched her cold, wet face. He felt it 
would soon be all over with him, but he determined to 
hold her body as long as he could. Perhaps he might 
be saved, and poor Madge should have Christian 
burial. 

But as the hours passed by the parson grew numb, 
and before he could arouse himself from his stupor the 
body slipped down the roof into the stream. He re- 
membered nothing more after that. When he opened 
his eyes next, he was afraid he was in heaven. Yet that 
could not be, for the sun was shining brightly, the room 
was warm, people were moving about, and he was in 
bed. Weak as he was, he knew that no poet had said 
anything about beds in paradise. He was, then, alive. 
A woman's face bent over him, and the sympathetic 
voice of a woman greeted him : 

" Hush ! Mr. Jones, the Lord's name be praised !" 

" My godfa—" 

" No, no ! You must keep still yet a while." 

When he was stronger, they told him how he was 



AN EVENING WALK 



153 



taken off the roof by the miller and by some men in a 
boat. They had gone for Madge. 

" Poor Madge !" said the parson; '* I remember. She 
died and slipped into the water." 

" She slipped into the water, but the boat was close 
by then and picked her up. Here she is ;" and sitting 
in a great arm-chair by the fire was Madge, very white, 
but living. 

Parson Jones rubbed his eyes : 

" I thought she was dead." 

"Very nearly. Woefully exhausted, but the doctor 
brought her round, praise the Lord !" 

No one in that part of the country ever forgot the 
great flood, the parson and Madge least of all. Many 
people lost everything, and much damage was done. 
Some time after, the parson and Madge were married ; 
for the parson said it was only fitting that they who 
were spared from dying together should for the rest of 
their days live together. In his ninetieth year they ate 
an oyster-supper with their grandchildren, and he told 
anew the story of that night. Verily, neighbors all, 
there are strange things in this world ! 

Thus far Tippling John. And now good-night ! 



CHAPTER VII. 

a Coton in ilje dljilterns. 

" He plucks the wild rose in the woods 
And gathers eglantine, 
And holds the golden buttercups 
Beneath his sister's chin." 

A quaint and ancient town is this Watlington. Its 
very name carries one back to British times when the 
Dobuni fenced their villages with trees cut down and 
laid across one another. The Saxons called this mode 
of fortification watclar ; hence the place was " the town 
of the wattles " or " hurdles." A picture of primitive 
life: a rude clearing in the great beech-forest, which 
then extended from Kent to a point far beyond this, a 
few sheds or huts for a simple people and their cattle, 
and the strange manners and trying privations which 
were involved in a crude civilization and an almost com- 
plete isolation. There are neither Roman nor Saxon 
remains about the place, so far as I know, but there is a 
delightful look of old times both in the narrow, winding 
streets and in some of the houses. In the High street 
is a tavern styled the " Barley-Mow," whose blackened 
timbers in the wall indicate considerable age. The town- 
hall, the delight of artists and the resort of hucksters, 
was built in 1664 by Thomas Stonor, a member of a 
family which from the twelfth century has lived in the 

154 



A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 55 

place near by bearing the same name. Its gray mil- 
lions, high-pointed gables, dark arches, antique clock, 
nail-headed door and general appearance furnish a per- 
fect and pleasing specimen of the architecture of the age 
when England was rejoicing in the restoration of its 
king and the passing away of Puritan gloom and rigor. 

From the market-hall southward is a street called 
Couching — to which I will return by and by — and this 
ends in the road leading from Henley, the oldest place 
in the county, to Oxford, the most celebrated. A pleas- 
ant road it is, too, running in one direction over the hills 
to Nettlebed, the highest point of the Chilterns, on which 
a windmill spreads its sails to the breezes and thick 
furze-bushes dot the unenclosed common. In the other 
direction the road passes near the parish church. A 
rivulet, tiny and clear, flows playfully by the side of the 
way, and on a calm Sunday morning the melody of the 
church-bells and the music of the brook blend together 
in sweet, suggestive harmony. There are tall hollyhocks 
in the gardens and bright faces in the cottage doorways, 
and as one walks on one would think this was amongst 
the purest and the brightest spots in all England. So it 
may be, but a certain bishop of Oxford, Samuel Wilber- 
force of famous memory, declared the town to be one of 
the worst and darkest in his whole diocese. We may 
not dispute His Lordship's judgment, though his oppor- 
tunities for personal observation were limited to a visit 
of three or four hours once in every third year, and even 
in his day the old church used to be well filled and the 
people sang lustily and with a good courage. 

The place belonged to the abbey of St. Mary's at Os- 
ney. This great house on the Ey, near the Ousenford, 



156 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

was founded in the reign of Henry I. by Robert d'Oily, 
a nephew of the knight of the same name who came 
over with the Conqueror, acquired large possessions in 
this county, became governor of Oxford, and among 
other things built Shirbourne Castle. His wife, Eadgyth, 
once a mistress of the king, was much troubled with the 
constant chattering of magpies in the garden of the cas- 
tle at Oxford. She referred the subject to her confessor, 
who, knowing the language of birds, told her that the 
pies were none other than souls in purgatory beseeching 
her for prayers to release them from their bitter pains. 
Thus the abbey was founded and endowed with much 
land, Watlington being also in the gift, and in time it be- 
came magnificent for its appointments, " the envy of all 
other religious houses in England and beyond the seas." 
The influence in it was rather English than Norman ; at 
any rate, the second prior and the first abbot had the 
name, and probably belonged to the family, of Wiggod 
of Wallingford, an old Saxon noble who contrived to 
hold his own under William. It had a church contain- 
ing many chapels and twice as many altars as there were 
months in the year. Further estates were bestowed upon 
it, kings and nobles often graced it with their presence, 
and when dissolved its revenue was between six and 
seven hundred pounds. The mercy which led to its es- 
tablishment was not always exhibited within its walls. 
In the year 1222 there was a singular imposture at Ox- 
ford. A man proclaimed himself as the Messiah, and 
exhibited the stigmata in his body as proofs of his asser- 
tion. Another man aided him, and two women declared 
themselves to be the Marys. Such a story in our day 
would be treated with indifference, but the thirteenth 



A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 57 

century was more serious and severe. The four impos- 
tors were brought to trial in Osney Abbey; the men 
were sent, one to crucifixion, the other to fire, and the 
women were condemned to be built up alive in the walls 
of the abbey. The sentence of living entombment was 
carried into effect. We must not judge the people of 
bygone ages as we would judge ourselves, only it is 
curious that consideration for the souls in purgatory does 
not seem to have induced consideration for the souls in 
heresy, except that material fire is easier to bear than 
spiritual, and may, indeed, preclude it. 

The good fathers of Osney, however, must not be con- 
demned upon an event which happened incidentally in 
the course of their four centuries of history, and which 
was, indeed, brought about by a tribunal presided over 
by one of the greatest and best of the primates, Stephen 
Langton, and composed of members mostly outside of 
their society. They did much for the upbuilding of the 
people around them. In common with other monas- 
teries, the ecclesiastical livings which were appropriated 
to them, and of which they became rectors, were fairly 
well cared for by them and served by their vicar. They 
received the great or rectorial tithes, and the priest who 
did the duty, but was not responsible for the temporal- 
ities, was supported out of them, or by what were known 
as " the small tithes." When the abbey was broken up, 
instead of restoring the rectory to the clergyman of the 
parish, it, with the lands of the Church belonging to the 
religious house, was granted to some courtier whose in- 
terest it was to blacken the character of the monks be- 
yond all possible recognition, and whose inheritors still 
retain, and unrighteously retain, that which does not be- 



158 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

long to them. The wrong was wrought throughout the 
realm, and on the ruins of the monastic houses grew up 
a society new without nobility and powerful without 
Tightness. Hence there are lay rectors who fill the place 
of the old monks, and the spiritual functions of the office 
are performed by a clergyman who is called, and actually 
is, the vicar, the substitute and deputy of the rector. 
Whether lay rectors are better than monastic rectors is 
not for me to say, nor is it possible until the problem is 
satisfactorily solved whether man as a squire or man as 
a monk is the better fitted to be the guardian of the peo- 
ple's spiritual rights. Any way, the Austin canons of 
the abbey in the Meadow Island built the church at 
Watlington, and some of their work remains in the 
present edifice. 

It is not much of a building. It was not much before 
its restoration, ten years since ; it is still less now. The 
high red-tile roof of the restored portion does not cor- 
respond with the flat lead roof of the part not touched, 
and there is striking incongruity inside between the new 
and the old. Formerly the chapel on the south side was 
secluded and separate. There were tombs in there, and 
an iron railing divided them from the body of the church. 
I remember, when the " forty years long " in the Venite 
was reached, I used to look toward that dark corner and 
wonder if they who rested there were of the generation 
that grieved the Almighty. I did not know who were 
buried within the sacred precincts, but there were hatch- 
ments, dingy and dusty, hanging high up on the chan- 
cel-walls, and brasses four hundred years old. There 
was no chapel or transept on the north side, but the 
chancel was long and filled with pews arranged in the 



A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. I 59 

usual choir or college fashion. The pulpit was a mighty 
structure, standing at the east entrance of the nave, and 
had the appearance of being halfway down the church. 
A flight of steps led up into the great square reading- 
pew, and from that another flight led up into the pulpit, 
which stood upon one post, was round and had a sound- 
ing-board and a great red cushion. There was some- 
thing of the highest dignity in the way the venerable 
vicar in silken gown and white bands smoothed his ser- 
mon on this cushion and cleared his throat preparatory 
to his fifty-minute delivery. The new school of divines 
cannot approach the old clergy in official gracefulness ; 
they have lost their dignity in short surplices and thin 
essays. Opposite the pulpit, immediately across the 
passage, was the little desk for the parish clerk, a pre- 
cise, prompt, rotund and ruddy individual, short in stat- 
ure and a carpenter by trade, who used to strut up and 
down the chancel before the parson, open the door of 
the reading-pew or pulpit, shut him in, and when it was 
time let him out again with a gravity and primness which 
astonished strangers and delighted the parishioners. He 
used also to make the responses in a loud tone, the only 
soul in the church that presumed to do so, and he an- 
nounced the hymns in a sonorous voice, absolutely 
inimitable, prefaced with the invariable " Let us sing to 
the praise and the glory of God." Perhaps the custom 
of the clerk instead of the parson giving out the hymn 
arose from the fact that once upon a time he was prob- 
ably choirmaster, if not choir, and would therefore be best 
able to judge of what came within the compass of his 
powers. Sometimes it fell to his duty to trip down the 
church and up into the loft or gallery at the west end, 
11 



l60 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

where the singers and the poor-school children sat, and 
rebuke the bad boy who would not observe order during 
the service. Occasionally he would bring the said bad 
boy back with him and stand him on the pulpit steps, at 
once a punishment to the offender and an admonition to 
the offending. The restoration of the church has swept 
out that noble and worthy functionary ; he is no more, 
either in office or in person, and somehow or other, dear 
as he was in the eyes and the ears of the faithful, things 
go on without him. 

Time has also removed another individual, a trim, 
correct bachelor who for years sat in the great square 
pew under the pulpit. Wet or fine this gentleman was 
always in his place, and wet or fine he had always a stiff 
high collar and a big white cravat. He was the ad- 
mired of all admirers, and every unmarried lady of 
middle or uncertain age in the church used to wonder 
when the eventful day of his life would arrive and if 
she could possibly do up his collars. When the ser- 
mon became unusually dry, people relieved the monot- 
ony by watching the flies on the bare round place at 
the back of his head enjoying themselves in ways con- 
genial to their nature. He rarely interfered with them ; 
when he did, he lifted his hand gently, slowly, aimfully, 
and then at the proper moment brought it down with a 
smart slap upon the caputial vacancy, only to find that 
the offending diptera had left the infinitesimal part of a 
moment before. No matter how serious the sermon, 
this slightly upset the spectators. They neither said 
anything nor laughed aloud, but they turned very red 
and bent over, as if for private prayer. It was rumored 
that he was in love with a venerable maiden-lady some 



A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. l6l 

fifteen years his senior, a sweet and gentle creature who, 
though she was suspected of wearing a wig and of hav- 
ing lost some teeth in the conflict with time, considered 
it best to wait a little longer before she threw herself 
away, even upon a highly-respectable bachelor. She 
sat some distance from him inside the chancel, and, 
like him, was always in her place and always devout. 
Both are now sleeping in the graveyard outside. 

The old tower remains, partly covered with ivy. On 
its highest ledge, on the north side, a good-sized bush . 
has been growing for some years; probably the seed 
was carried up by a bird and dropped into the mortar. 
At the south-west corner of the tower is a yew tree, the 
trunk of which four feet from the ground measures ten 
feet eight inches in circumference. It is most likely 
three or four centuries old. The ancients planted the 
yew to protect the church from evil spirits, also to sup- 
ply wood for their bows. The torches of the Furies 
were made of yew, and on the Sunday next before 
Easter its boughs were used instead of palm or olive. 
It had a symbolism which spoke to all — the dark color 
of the mortality of man, the seemingly unfailing trunk 
of immortality, and hence, perhaps, its name, ewig $ 
" everlasting." Gilbert White thinks the more respect- 
able parishioners were buried under this tree, and that 
it was also designed as a shelter to the congregation 
assembling before the church doors were opened. 
Some have supposed it further served to shield the 
sacred edifice from the storm. Its leaves are poison 
and its wood was used for the instruments of death ; 
therefore Shakespeare calls it " double-fated." On Sun- 
days, contrary to the canon against loiterers, the idle 



1 62 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

youth used to gather at this tower corner and under 
this tree, much to the annoyance of passers-by, who 
were too often the subjects of their witticisms. The 
carved figures to the waterspouts are as formerly, and 
besides them are two heads, the one on the west and 
the other to the east of the south porch. These two 
figures are interesting. The former is looking down the 
main pathway to the church, with the left hand holding 
the robe over the breast and the right hand shading the 
eyes, anxiously watching for the coming worshippers ; 
the latter, overlooking the main portion of the grave- 
yard, has a mingled aspect of sorrow, sympathy and 
hope, as though it extended these to the weary ones 
who came to weep at the graves of their dead. The 
tombstones appear old, but are not really so. The at- 
mosphere soon darkens them, lichen covers them, and 
they speedily chip and crumble away. 

I named Couching street; let us return thither and 
pick up a few reminiscences there. Years ago I used 
to puzzle over its etymology. Had Osney Abbey be- 
longed to the Crutched Friars, I should have been 
tempted to think it was a corruption of their name; 
and once I came near fancying it might formerly have 
been Crouch for the Croce of Doomsday. These, how- 
ever, were no more satisfactory than the suggestion of 
one who thought it meant Sleepy street because it was 
so quiet. In Old English there was such a word as 
couchen or cowchyn, meaning " to place or set together," 
and possibly, as the houses or cottages which compose 
this street were built up till they became continuous, 
the name was thus given. Be this as it may, Couching 
is a narrow, still street with rough pebbles most of its 



A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. 1 63 

length for the sidewalk, one or two inns, a few shops, 
some private residences and a malt-house. At the back 
of the houses on the south side of the street are gardens 
opening into a lane, beyond which lie open fields run- 
ning up to the rolling hills a mile away. At one end of 
this lane a plank serves as a bridge into the Henley 
road across the babbling brooklet already mentioned; the 
other end leads into the highway up to the White Mark. 
In the street and in the lane Chanticleer and his company 
scratch for a living, and a pig occasionally seeks for gar- 
bage. Little occurs in this neighborhood to disturb the 
restful monotony. When a trap rattles over the hard 
road or a hen cackles, most of the old ladies run to the 
windows to satisfy their curiosity ; and when the con- 
stable succeeds in taking a drunken man to the lock- 
up, close by, they become so excited as to need some- 
thing stronger in their tea than either milk, sugar, water 
or the uninebriating herb itself. At the time the prince 
of Wales was married, and a brass band from Walling- 
ford played "All among the Barley" as it passed 
through the streets, the Union Jack waving in its 
glory and a goodly company of men and boys follow- 
ing and shouting with soul-stirring vigor, it is said it 
took so much hot water, sugar and brandy to calm the 
nerves of the people and to allay their heart-throbbing 
loyalty that the town was in danger of being left with- 
out a drop of distilled liquor in it. Such a crisis has 
never been reached since. Most of the ancient inhab- 
itants of the place keep a little on hand against emer- 
gencies and hysterics, and before this is exhausted the 
new railway, which seems to have little else to do, 
replenishes the supply. 



164 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

It matters little into which house we enter in this 
street ; each will furnish us with a picture more or less 
pleasing of quiet life. Here is one, a comfortable-look- 
ing two-story brick domicile, a bay-window on each side 
of the front door, and, opposite, the bonnet-like chimney 
of the malt-house. The street door has a knocker and 
a bright brass handle ; it is also panelled and has suf- 
ficient projection over it in the way of a pent-house to 
bring the rain-drippings exactly on the middle of one's 
umbrella when standing underneath. There was design 
in this last feature: a tramp on a stormy day would 
avoid getting wet through for the sake of a crust of 
bread or a crusty refusal. Inside is a short passageway 
or hall, on the right side of which a door opened into 
the parlor, and on the left a door into the sitting-room, 
through which one passed into the kitchen, and hence 
into one of the sweetest of gardens. At the end of the 
passage a flight of stairs neatly carpeted led to the three 
or four upper rooms. Thirty years since, for three 
hours in the forenoon and three hours in the afternoon, 
a number of respectable young ladies and gentlemen, 
sons and daughters of the best of the local society, met 
in the parlor for instruction in the rudiments of a polite 
education. The terms were not high — one guinea a 
quarter, and a crown extra for French, music or good 
manners. A shoulder-board for the young ladies and a 
cane for the young gentlemen were the means of disci- 
plining the juvenile mind and body into the ways of rec- 
titude and industry. The former went the round of the 
girls every day, and their time devoted to it was in pro- 
portion to their numbers. If there were twelve of them, 
each spent half an hour a day standing up and holding 



A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. 1 65 

in proper position the instrument for making square 
shoulders ; if there were six, each had an hour a day. 
The girls were, therefore, interested in keeping up the 
numbers and attendance. At the same time the one 
undergoing the gentle process had to commit to mem- 
ory a page or so of Mrs. Magnall's questions or one of 
the psalms of David, the book being placed on a desk 
before her. Frequently a weaker girl could not com- 
plete her time, but it was so arranged that during school- 
hours the board was always in use; a stronger pupil 
took her place and filled up the spare minutes in addi- 
tion to her own share. The good lady who managed 
the establishment had gone through this process her- 
self in the days when the French Revolution was up- 
setting things on the Continent, and she knew the value 
and the benefit of such a training. Only in this way 
could the backs of young ladies be fitted to the straight- 
backed chairs of the period. As to the young gentle- 
men, the discipline of the cane fell to the lot of one, in 
turn each day. The more boys there were, the longer 
the interval between the individual's portion. About 
eleven o'clock in the forenoon, when the potatoes were 
peeled and the pudding was in the pot ready for dinner, 
the lady of the school took the victim for the day out 
into the kitchen. Everybody knew the purpose — the 
boys by experience, the girls by information. Very lit- 
tle was said. The youth followed the instructions given, 
adjusted his clothing and extended himself full length 
upon a bench. All that followed was without fear or 
favor. The red eyes of the lad when he returned to the 
room showed the immediate effects ; time has made 
manifest the permanent results. Every lad who came 



1 66 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

under the tuition and training of this school turned out 
well, and some have made positions for themselves in 
the world. 

The school was popular, for the lady at its head had 
been a governess in the family of a great bishop and 
wrote a neat Italian hand. She was a maiden of many 
years' standing, short and stout, with a kindly face and 
a profusion of curls, dignified and exact, and, withal, 
humorous and lively. She wore a silk dress and a 
heavy gold watch-chain, and about her there was a frag- 
rance of lavender which suggested the wardrobe and 
the herb-garden. It was commonly reported that once 
she had suffered shipwreck. This was in the Irish Sea, 
and was confirmed by one of the boys, who said that 
the paper of an old geography locked up in her book- 
case had the blue tinge of the sea and left the taste of 
salt upon the tongue. Any way, she had travelled both 
in Ireland and in Wales and was a well-informed and 
well-read woman. That she was a Tory goes for the 
saying : her romantic spirit led her to love the days of 
chivalry and the traditions of the Church. Many a 
tale she told of valiant knight and holy bishop, of gay 
tournament and adventurous voyage, while her eyes 
glistened with enthusiasm and her voice quivered with 
emotion as she spoke of the battle of Roncesvalle and 
the dauntless Roland, of Runnymede and the noble 
Langton, of Drake and of Raleigh, and, above all, of 
Bonnie Prince Charlie. There was not a boy who 
heard her that did not wish to become crusader, re- 
former or navigator, and to perform deeds as marvellous 
as those of a Robin Hood or a Robinson Crusoe ; there 
was not a girl who did not wish she had been Mary 



A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 67 

queen of Scots, or at least the lord mayor's daughter 
whom the apprentice saved from drowning in the 
Thames. They forgave her for making them recite the 
collect and the gospel for the week first thing on Mon- 
day morning, and as the girls forgot the shoulder-boards 
in the fairy's wand, and the boys the cane in the knight's 
lance, so all agreed that for a story of good times and 
of old times their mistress could not be equalled. 

Occasionally the exercises of the school were varied 
by an afternoon's outing. Sometimes the destination 
was that delightful hill known as the Cuckoo Pen. This 
required an early start, as it was some three miles dis- 
tant. At one o'clock the school assembled — about 
twenty, all told — and gravely and demurely walked 
through the streets two and two, the eldest girls first, 
after the girls the boys, and in the rear the good old lady 
carrying a large parasol and reticule. Up Couching 
street, by the town-hall, round the butcher's shop and 
up the road to the White Mark. No talking, no laugh- 
ing, no breaking of the procession till the foot of the 
hill was reached, but then in the grass-covered road by 
the chalk-pits, where wicked young men used to play 
cricket on Sunday afternoons, the most unrestrained 
mirth. Gayly and lightsomely the school wended its 
way through that wide shady lane, past Bacon Hill, to 
the Cuckoo Pen. How merrily the young folks chat- 
tered and sang, now racing over the thick sward, now 
plucking wild flowers or blackberries from the hedges, 
and now jumping leapfrog, skipping or playing ball ! I 
see them now as I saw them one bright August day a 
quarter of a century since. There are our three Pyrton 
boys, gay, lively youngsters, the eldest nearly fourteen ; 



1 68 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

there is our pretty Eva, the daintiest and sweetest of all 
the maidens. There are other boys, but none so noble 
as Arthur from Pyrton ; there are other girls, but none 
so queenly as Eva. Through the gate at the foot of the 
hill they rush ; up the steep sides they clamber. There 
are steps cut in the steepest places, and the moss and the 
grass are soft and slippery. On the summit is a fine 
copse, another a little farther back, and behind that and 
stretching far away into the valley between the hills a 
thick greenwood. The view from the top is fine, and on 
the edge of the first copse there was a double-trunked 
tree in the deep fork of which one or two of the more 
venturesome boys used to sit. In front of this tree all 
assemble, and after a while the cake and the ginger-beer 
arrive. The soft winds fan the rosy cheeks and cool the 
tired limbs ; some of the youngsters wander in twos and 
threes into the wood, some gather moss or catch grass- 
hoppers, and some roll down the hillside over thistles 
and through furze. There is Ben almost in the top of 
that big beech tree, his white trousers soiled with green 
off the bark, and there is Eva, the little puss, not ten 
years old, sitting on the ground with a boy by her side 
and her hand in his. " Will you marry me when you 
grow up, Eva?." — "Yes, if you will be a doctor like 
papa." Here comes George with a paper box full of 
grasshoppers, and Arthur with a fledgling which he has 
caught. Everybody runs to see the bird. " Poor 
thing !" — " Feathers scarcely grown !" — " Cruel !" — " Let 
it go !" and, somehow or other, there is a chilly feeling 
comes over all when the captive is taken back to the 
neighborhood of the nest and released. On the way 
home everybody walks slower and there is less noise. 



A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 69 

But, though tired, each scholar owns that an afternoon 
on the Cuckoo Pen is about the best fun that can be in 
this world, and the next morning even the shoulder- 
board and the French verb are easy, and the boy whose 
turn it is to become acquainted with the cane thinks 
flagellation uncomfortable, to be sure, but nevertheless 
bearable after a day of such rare delight. 

In the room on the other side, opposite to that in 
which the school met, might be seen at any time between 
seven and nine o'clock in the forenoon, and after five till 
a quarter-past ten in the evening, another old lady, sister 
to the maiden-mistress in the parlor. She was not the 
opposite of her sister, but the same sort of person, only 
on a reduced scale. Her tastes, ideas, sentences, habits 
and the rest were the same, only less magnificent. She 
could not teach French, but she could make excellent 
elderberry wine, and, as every one knows, elderberry 
wine, warmed and spiced, with biscuit or toast, is better 
on a wintry night before going to bed than the most cor- 
rect speech of Paris. Her sister wore silk ; she, having 
the house to look after, used prints and stuffs. Both had 
spectacles — the one gold rimmed, the other brass cov- 
ered with flannel. She was a treasurer of antiquity. 
The sofa under the window at the far side of the room 
was made before men ceased to write " 1700" at the top 
of their letters. Over the mantel was a picture of a Re- 
bekah at the well, a very English scene as old as the 
sofa, and above it were three or four bulrush-heads which 
had not been removed for a generation at least. A curi- 
ous portrait of an old lady who died actually one hun- 
dred and three years old — traditionally, one hundred and 
thirty — placed beside one of a rosy-cheeked boy of five, 



170 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

brought into contrast " crabbed age and youth." A desk 
made in the year 1827 out of a yew tree reputed at the 
time when cut down to be at least five hundred years old 
was one of her greatest delights. That tree may have 
furnished some of the archers of Agincourt with their 
bows, and it may have been planted from a tree which 
was young when Harold sat in the throne at Westmin- 
ster. Her spare time was spent in thinking over the 
possibilities of that tree, and doubtless many a pleasant 
vision passed before her. In two things she had received 
a fuller development than her sister : she had a belief in 
ghosts, and she was fond of the garden. The former 
she sought to propitiate by saying as little about them 
as possible ; to the latter she gave four or five hours of 
every fine day. She had plum trees, apricots and vines, 
gooseberry- and raspberry-bushes, strawberries and clus- 
ters of carnations, roses, gillyflowers, daffodils, daisies, 
honeysuckle, and even potatoes and cabbages. It was a 
frequent observation of hers that for beauty lilies in a 
vase, and for usefulness parsnips in a dish, had no equals. 
Life flowed on easily with the sisters, and little came in 
to disturb their peace. Once in a very long while one 
of them went up to London, but there were no charms 
in the city for them. Now they lie side by side near the 
east end of the chapel at the parish church. 

Before we leave this house let me take you to a room 
up stairs looking out toward the hills. The walls are 
covered with designs of roses — old-fashioned, indeed, 
and highly colored, but the trailing vines run up from 
floor to ceiling, green leaves, mossy buds and brilliant 
blooms, with a suggestiveness as true as that the highest 
art could give. Everything is scrupulously clean, the 



A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. 171 

carpet, of wondrous devices and faded tints, the figured 
dimity on the bedstead, the rush-bottom chairs, the chest 
of drawers with the oval looking-glass on top, the can- 
dlestick and the snuffer-tray, the black-oak coffer, — all 
as dustless as they are homely. There is but one win- 
dow in the room, for the house was built when windows 
were taxed. It opens after the manner of the old lattices 
and has the small lozenge-shaped panes. Inside, soft- 
shaded curtains hang on both sides of the recess, in 
which is a low seat under the casement, cushioned and 
fastened into the wall ; outside, a grape-vine twines its 
tendrils and sets its leaves thick all around, hiding the 
wall and the woodwork, and in the autumn rich purple 
clusters are within reach of the hand. But it is the view 
from the window that is the chief delight. Whenever I 
see it, I am reminded of the Pilgrim at the House Beau- 
tiful : " When the morning was up, they had him to the 
top of the house, and bid him look south. So he did, 
and behold, at a great distance, he saw a most pleasant, 
mountainous country, beautified with woods, vineyards, 
fruits of all sorts, flowers also, with springs and foun- 
tains, very delectable to behold." I do not say that the 
picture is as lovely as that of the Delectable Mountains, 
but seen in the glow of the early sunlight it is not alto- 
gether unworthy of comparison ; indeed, it is probable 
that from such a scene Bunyan drew his inspiration. 
There lie the hills — graceful lines against the horizon, 
the green of the fields and woods making more intense 
the white of the chalk- pits and roads. At the foot of 
the Mark are the wheat- and barley-fields ; and when 
the July winds gently pass over the wide reaches of tall 
grain, sweeping it into waves like those of some sea- 



172 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

waters, they look like rich plush smoothed by a soft 
hand. What says the old song? 

" Come out ! 'tis now September : 

The hunter's moon's begun, 
And through the wheaten stubble 

Is heard the frequent gun ; 
The leaves are paling yellow 

Or kindling into red, 
And the ripe and golden barley 

Is hanging down his head. 

" All among the barley, 

Who would not be blithe 
When the free and happy barley 
Is smiling on the scythe ? 

" The Spring she is a young maid 

That does not know her mind ; 
The Summer is a tyrant 

Of most unrighteous kind ; 
The Autumn is an old friend 

That loves one all he can, 
And that brings the happy barley 

To glad the heart of man. 

" All among the barley, etc. 

" The wheat is like a rich man 

That's sleek and well-to-do ; 
The oats are like a pack of girls 

Laughing and dancing too ; 
The rye is like a miser 

That's sulky, lean and small ; 
But the free and bearded barley 

Is the monarch of them all. 

" All among the barley, etc." 

Sing the good old lines to the accompaniment of the 
guitar in the open air of the closing summer twilight, 



A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. 1 73 

with a " pack of girls " and their swains, happy-hearted 
and sweet-voiced, to join in the chorus, and a strange 
delight will be yours for the time and a pleasant memory 
yours for ever. Then you will enjoy with deeper zest 
and fuller inspiration the picture of the fields of grain. 
A pleasant sight it is to see the harvest-moon shining 
on the standing shocks of corn ; pleasanter, to see the 
poor and needy leasing after the reapers. How strange 
appears the one tree in the middle of yonder field, thick 
with leaves and casting a deep shadow in which the 
sheep rest during the noontide heat, but seemingly lost 
in its solitude ! There are nuts in the high hedges for 
squirrels and truant boys, and sloes and crab-apples. 
In the deserted rooks' nests among the elms far away 
toward the Nettlebed road the fierce and indolent spar- 
rowhawk sometimes rears its young, and excites at once 
the fear of the smaller birds, the desires of the town-lads 
and the ire of the gamekeeper. How gently the clouds 
rest in the blue sky ! And the earth seems to sleep in 
its calm and lovely splendor — no care, no sorrow, 
quietly doing its work and not suffering the mind to 
dwell upon the winter of nature nor upon the storms 
which try the human heart. Standing in the window 
there, the eye rests upon a landscape full of interest, a 
scene never to be forgotten, and the soul is refreshed 
with the vision of beauty. 

But we must away to other parts of this interesting 
town. Once in a while a Punch-and-Judy show comes 
and exhibits near the town-hall. There is then much 
excitement — even greater than that caused by the 
monthly visit of the " scissor-grinder." The latter fairly 
rivals the travelling tinker, who does a fair trade for two 



174 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

reasons — first, because of his handiness at mending old 
pots and kettles ; and secondly, being a gypsy, he is sus- 
pected of a capability of stealing fowl by way of revenge 
for not having work given him. If he cannot have 
bread honestly — Well, that is what some think. The 
children are half afraid of him because gypsies have been 
known to steal boys and girls and make acrobats, 
and sometimes aristocrats, out of them. As to the 
grinder of scissors, he is commonly supposed to live 
somewhere in the neighborhood, though where nobody 
knows. He is even suspected of being an itinerant 
preacher, but the weight of opinion is rather in favor of 
regarding him as a pretty straightforward sort of man. 
He is quiet, low in his charges, sober and respectful. 
For a penny he will sharpen all the cutlery of a small 
establishment. He also mends umbrellas and sells paper 
windmills. When he comes wheeling his little machine 
down the street, boys run after him with their pocket- 
knives and women with their scissors, and as the sparks 
fly from the tiny grindstone everybody looks on with 
profoundest interest. But he shines only in the absence 
of the sun. The luminary of luminaries is the puppet- 
show man. Here in this open space in front of the 
White Hart — one of the best inns, by the way, in the 
country — he goes through the tragedy of Punchinello. 
Between the acts he performs on a primitive musical in- 
strument consisting of a row of small pipes fastened in 
the front of his coat. This " wind-organ," being level 
with his mouth so that he can use it at his convenience, 
and if need be beat a drum at the same time, produces 
music similar to that which is obtained by blowing over 
the open end of a key. Occasionally he uses a jewsharp; 



A TOWN IN THE CHIL TERNS. 1 75 

sometimes, a cornet ; less frequently, a violin. If he has 
any artistic vanity, it is helped by the lusty cheers of the 
crowd ; his pocket is filled with their pence. Only let 
Punch kill the devil, and every man in the company will 
give the " price of a pint." 

You see in the cottage doorway the housewife trun- 
dling the mop. It is skilfully done ; so is the way in 
which she balances herself on her pattens. The cleaner 
she keeps her stone floor, the higher her respectability. 
That is one of the aims of her life. She has two others 
— viz., to bring up her children as she thinks they ought 
to be brought up, and to grow the finest flowers possi- 
ble. Compare the little fellow sitting on the upturned 
bucket by the door-scraper, munching a slice of bread 
covered with treacle, with the fuchsias and geraniums in 
the window, and you can judge of her success. Speak 
to her ; yes, sir, independence is one of the characteris- 
tics of the English peasantry. She will answer you with 
respect, but not with servility. You may be richer and 
know more : that she will admit ; but you are no better 
than she. Praise the boy or the flowers, and you will 
see the healthy blush on her cheek deepen with delight. 

The curate is an important person in most country 
parishes. It is a mistake to suppose that he does all the 
work — some small portion of it is undertaken by the 
rector — but he receives most of the popularity. The 
people always regard him as an ill-used, under-paid and 
sadly-neglected individual, and not a few things of a 
severe and spiteful nature are said concerning the eccle- 
siastical superior who treats him so badly. The young 
ladies think constantly and kindly of him, especially if 
he be single. They are not turned aside from their ad- 
12 



176 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

miration for him by anything less than a soldier, and, as 
a fact, the moment a red coat comes into the parish the 
black coat is forgotten. However, the curate's day 
comes round again. He is there all the time, and can 
play croquet, drink tea, quote authors, shape compli- 
ments, make sonnets, explain difficulties and do all sorts 
of odd things, while his appearance on Sundays in a 
snow-white surplice with the hood of soft rabbit-fur lin- 
ing is "just too lovely for anything." To say that he 
flirts is going too far, but he succeeds in making every 
girl in the parish think her chances are the best. In 
many places he is the only youth a girl of taste and edu- 
cation would care for ; and if he cannot marry all the 
maidens of the neighborhood, it is not his fault. As a 
rule, when he does take unto himself a wife, she is from 
another parish, and then his resignation speedily follows. 
Unfortunately, his chances of promotion are not invariably 
good. If poor and of lowly origin, he has small hope of 
being anything else than a curate. Talents except of the 
very highest and rarest order go for little : influence is every- 
thing. Many of the ablest workers the Church of England 
has remain curates all their life, and many of the most in- 
efficient, useless, parish-killing clergy have rich livings 
from the outset. As a training when young nothing can 
be better than a position under an able and sympathetic 
rector. The lack of responsibility is then helpful, and 
none can feel that more than the man who, full of zeal and 
life, has from his ordination been committed to the care 
and management of a large parish. Young men can then 
make mistakes without doing any serious damage. Once 
upon a time a curate was called to solemnize marriage 
for the first time. He got confused, confounded, and 



A TOWN IN THE CHILTERNS. IJJ 

opened the book at the wrong place. He did not under- 
stand why the people smiled when he began, " Hath this 
child been already baptized or no ?" The clerk put him 
right ; some of the young ladies said he was in love with 
the bride. It was the more provoking because, accord- 
ing to his own confession afterward, he had gone through 
the service the night before with the clerk and the rec- 
tor's cook — both relics in the seventies — as subjects. — 
No ; the story is not of this young fellow talking to the 
butcher at the corner. He looks as though he could as 
easily take first oar or bowler as perform the most diffi- 
cult ecclesiastical function. I fancy he would keep cool 
even if he had to baptize a child, as was once certainly 
done, by the name of " Anna Miranda Morea Maria 
McRunnaho Donahue Bridget Dashiell." — But why 
speak of curates ? Because Watlington needs some- 
thing to keep it alive, and I know of nothing better than 
a curate. He could at least teach the people that when 
in mourning they are not obliged to drink black tea. 

Crooked streets, old houses, shops with tiny windows 
and with bow-windows, residences hid away behind high 
walls and seen only through great iron gates, walls built 
of flint with brick facings and broken glass bottles along 
the top, cobblestones and pebbles under foot, antique 
taverns, a gentle, drowsy, restful, self-satisfied life, — 
that is Watlington. The waves of Time's sea, great 
and mighty as they roll in this our present, break and 
exhaust their strength on shores far away. Only a few 
spatterings of spray driven by the wind reach this 
place — just enough to let its people know that some- 
thing great and ancient has been washed away, some 
mighty change effected. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

" And I liked their yew-cut alleys, 
Framing vistas of the valleys, 

And the church-tower and the lea, 
And the stately trees whose shadow 
Fell at eve o'er park and meadow 

Century after century." 

A warm morning. The hills lie quivering in the 
haze of the almost cloudless horizon, and three hours 
before noon the cattle in the fields seek the shadow of 
the beeches and the traveller moves slowly under the 
overspreading elms by the roadside. In the little town 
of Watlington the streets are mostly deserted; a few 
women are marketing at the butchers' stalls or the 
grocers' shops, and here and there a schoolboy drags 
his weary way to the place of flies, rods and Latin 
declensions. By the old market-hall stands a wagon; 
the busy chickens pick up the crumbs which fall from 
the horse's feed-bag. Up the road toward the White 
Mark a team is moving slowly ; the dog paces gently 
on, too lazy to run after the pigeons, and the driver is 
lying on his back, half asleep, on the top of the load. 
Everything indicates a hot, quiet day — one of those 
days when the wind is warmer than the still air. For- 
tunately, the roads are not dusty enough to make walk- 
ing unpleasant. 

178 



THAME. 179 

Two of us set out in the road running at the foot of 
the Chilterns — that is to say, the turnpike-road, for there 
is another parallel with this, higher up, grass-grown and 
unfrequented. The lovers of romance and of solitude 
may find their hearts' delight amid chalk-pits and 
sheep-walks, on mossy knolls and under gnarled and 
twisted hawthorn-bushes. Bacon Hill, bare of trees, 
but bristling with furze, and the Cuckoo Pen, with its 
noble copses on brow and side, are on the right, Chin- 
nor and Stokenchurch farther on, and Shirbourne and 
Lewknor, already mentioned, in the way. At the cross 
of the Stokenchurch road — one of the great highways 
to London — is the " Lambert Arms." This was once 
a busy, well-frequented inn, a hostelry flourishing and 
famous in the days of yore ; now it is decayed and 
deserted and has been turned into a " temperance hotel." 
It is sad to look at the old house with its faded sign and 
dim-paned windows and recall the times when coaches 
and postboys gave to it life and wealth. Horses were 
changed here ; belated travellers found a warm welcome 
and a hearty hospitality; when the wild wintry winds 
swept across the country-side and deep snows lay on 
the ground, the open blazing hearth became a refuge 
worthy of a king ; and mine host held that nowhere 
else on the highway could hungry guest find better 
cheer or thirsty soul purer and stronger ale. Tradi- 
tions run of poaching hereabouts, and this lone house 
near to the estates of gamekeeping squires, with easy 
means of getting rid of stray pheasants and partridges, 
favors the idea. No doubt Sam, the hostler, knew how 
to snare a hare, and also knew where to hide it under 
the straw. 



180 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

H Did you ever hear of any highwaymen in these 
parts ?" I ask of my companion. 

" They were common," he replies, " in years long ago, 
and some have said that Dick Turpin relieved two or 
three wealthy men of their purses near to the woods at 
the foot of the hills yonder ; but I doubt if Dick Tur- 
pin was ever in this country." 

So do I, but the road is lonely enough now, not a 
cart, horse nor man to be seen. How exciting when 
the coach, mud-splashed and creaking, came up to the 
inn with its story of robbery ! Away ride horsemen to 
raise the hue and cry and, if possible, to find the thieves. 
The roads are bad, heavy, full of ruts and holes in which 
the horses stumble and send the yellow water in all di- 
rections, and before anything can be done night sets in 
and the difficulties become insurmountable. Then the 
searchers come back again for supper and for the moon 
to rise, the parish constable from Lewknor in the mean 
time having arrived on the scene to assume official 
charge of the proceedings. As his qualification for office 
consists in his being full of years and of rheumatism, 
he does very little beyond ascertaining the facts of the 
case and pronouncing judgment thereon. He is looked 
upon as an oracle by all who know him ; no pagan ever 
listened more reverently to the augury of his priest than 
the men and the boys around these parts did to the ut- 
terances of the crooked and aged Dogberry. Once a 
rotund and rubicund coachman strange to the road 
and some distance gone in his cups, and therefore 
scarcely responsible, declared him to be an old woman ; 
but some standers-by promptly beat him into grief, and 
would have beaten him into jelly had he not acknow- 



THAME. l8l 

ledged his mistake. No more was said on that occa- 
sion, and we can imagine no more was done on this ; 
and both constable and highwaymen remained com- 
paratively unmolested. 

Farther on is Kingston, an old-fashioned village with 
quaint straw-thatched cottages. There life peacefully 
slumbers, and the advent of a stranger in the quiet lane- 
like streets sets gossip and conjecture agog for a week. 
The blacksmith was standing, with arms folded, in the 
doorway of his shop talking to a woman picking cur- 
rants in a garden across the way. They, a cow tethered 
by the roadside and some birds flitting from hedge to 
hedge were the only signs of a busy world ; all else was 
still. Once a lark sang his rich sky-song in the clear 
sunlight, but the melody melted away in the heat, and 
the echoes seemed to fall wearily to the ground. Beside 
the way were many noble oaks and some remarkably 
fine clumps of giant beech trees. Wild flowers in abun- 
dance grew in the thick hedges and meadow-grass ; 
roses of almost every hue vied with hollyhocks and 
dahlias to beautify the cottage gardens. At times the 
fragrance of the bean-blossom was stiflingly sweet and 
by its all-pervading strength suggested hounds thrown 
off their scent. 

A pleasant walk of a mile across the fields brought us 
to Aston. Here we visited the parish church. It is 
built, as are most of the churches of this neighborhood, 
of flint with stone ashlar facings, and has lately been re- 
stored. The exterior is not promising, a sundial dated 
1772 alone attracting attention. The parish clerk, an 
old man nearly ninety — so he told us — kindly unlocked 
the door and showed us around the inside of the build- 



1 82 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

ing ; a holy-water stoup at the door indicated its pre- 
Reformation origin. There is a number of tombs and 
mural tablets. Set in the wall in the north transept is 
an interesting monument to the memory of Lady Cicil 
Hobbee, who died in 1618. It is the figure of a lady, 
dressed in ruff and black robe, kneeling with clasped 
hands before a lectern on which lies an open book. On 
the top of the sculpture-work is an hourglass. In the 
opposite transept is a mural tablet, in Latin, of about the 
same date. In the aisles and the nave are vaults covered 
with inscribed stones to the memory of local celebrities, 
principally Coles and Thornhills ; they are also of the 
early part of the seventeenth century. Going up into 
the chancel, one steps upon an old stone in which a life- 
sized figure is deeply cut. The lettering around the 
outer edge is difficult to read, but I believe it is in Nor- 
man French ; if so, the tomb is of early Plantagenet 
date. Another stone tomb, partly within a low orna- 
mented recess on the north side of the chancel, is also 
interesting. It must be of great age, but some worn 
carved work on the top alone remains. I could not 
ascertain anything of its history ; only, a bench for the 
choir now hides it from the general view. Down in the 
nave are two small brasses almost obliterated, but still 
displaying a man and a woman in long robes and with 
hands clasped in the attitude of prayer. There are sev- 
eral modern tablets on the walls in the lower part of the 
church, and under the belfry are plainly-painted tables 
of the benefactors of the parish and the nature, value and 
object of their benefactions. The old font remains. The 
ancient figures in the clerestory are characteristic ; they 
severally express Age, Youth, Sorrow and Mirth — typ- 



THAME. 183 

ical of the worshippers upon whom they look. On the 
altar are candles and cross. In the yard rank grass 
hides many of the graves, and thick ivy the headstones 
An inscription, of 1826, runs: 

" Weep not, my Wife and Children dear, 
I am not dead, but sleeping here ; 
My debt is paid, my grave you see : 
Wait but awhile, and you will follow me. 
A sincere Friend, a Husband dear, 
A tender Parent, lieth here." 

Possibly neither wife nor children would feel much 
cheered by the fact that they would follow him ; at any 
rate, there is something uncomfortable in the dead man's 
saying such things. That fourth line is very mean, con- 
temptible and unworthy of a good-natured ghost. 

Leaving this quiet and sacred spot, we had a delight- 
ful walk of about two miles across the fields to the 
" Barley-Mow," near Sydenham. This is the best way 
of seeing rural England. It is possible to walk from 
one end of the country to the other by footpaths, and 
the reward for doing so is very great. The haymakers 
were busy in the meadows through which we passed ; 
in some fields sheep were grazing and cows meditatively 
chewing the cud; birds were singing, hedges blooming, 
and by the side of the tiny brook the brightly-tinted 
kingfisher darted from willow to brier and tall reeds and 
brilliant red poppies swayed gently in the warm wind. 
It was amusing to watch the stately, ludicrous walk of 
the rooks across the grass ; as they carefully raise each 
foot, and give their body a slight and consequential tilt 
in doing so, they look absurdly grave and make one 
think of dignified black-robed monks, fat and full, ten- 



1 84 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

derly picking their way barefooted through thistles or 
fallen holly-leaves. Some of the meadows were trav- 
ersed with trenches, and in the springtime or during 
drought the whole land is lightly flooded : an abundant 
hay-crop is the result. At the Barley-Mow the ancient- 
looking landlady gave us some very poor ginger ale and 
enlivened us with a few reminiscences of her sleepy road- 
side inn. The tap-room is quaint, with high, worn set- 
tles and well- cut deal tables ; an old-fashioned fireplace 
with mantel-piece near the low, smoke-hued ceiling ; the 
walls covered with prints of prize pigs and racehorses and 
some bills of agricultural fairs. The hostess wore a dress 
which had seen better days — possibly when she was a 
gay maiden, forty years since ; its color, that of an aged 
crow, dusky, mingled russet and gray, and its shape 
such as a novice had devised and constant, if not ju- 
dicious, patching had perfected. Her whitened tresses 
were caught in the strings of an old black cap ; a yellow 
collar with a bit of violet ribbon adorned her neck, and 
her feet were not like those pretty mice of which a 
golden ballad sings. In the autumn and winter even- 
ings a goodly company of villagers tests the warmth of 
her hearth and the strength of her ale. Then Dick the 
ratter tells his stories of ferrets and weasels, at which 
Tim and Jack open their mouths wider and wider as the 
interest becomes deeper and deeper, and others tap their 
empty mugs approvingly on the table. A song with a 
rousing chorus, repeated over again and again, brings 
under the window the policeman, who devoutly wishes 
he could join the merry throng and discreetly takes 
himself off about the time of closing up. At fair-time 
and on market-days, when people pass more frequently 



THAME. 185 

along the highway, many stop here and refresh them- 
selves with pure home-brewed or genuine Dublin stout 
from the local maltster. Close by is a large house, un- 
occupied ; a woman hanged herself there, and her ghost 
now haunts the place. Our landlady had not seen the 
apparition herself, but, as she put it, " there be such 
things, you know, and lots of folks hereabouts have seen 
her." The horseshoe over the door sufficiently pro- 
tected her from witches and the like — though, to be 
sure, she had once been frightened out of her wits by a 
travelling fellow with an electrical machine, and went 
to church three or four Sundays running afterward. 
He showed her little fellows dancing under a glass and 
several strange, unearthly tricks, and finished by getting 
her to touch a tiny handle at the end of a wire. If she 
ever came near seeing stars and spirits, it was then. She 
jumped and screamed ; then she bundled him out of the 
front door and knelt down and said the Lord's Prayer 
three times, had a strong cup of tea, scrubbed out the 
tap-room, and thought more seriously of higher and bet- 
ter things. The man had a wife — a neat, trim sort of a 
woman — and she came afterward to get the carpet-bag 
which he had left in his hurry. 

" I urged her to leave such a wicked man," said the 
landlady, " for he was an imp of Satan and would do her 
no good ; but the blinded thing told me he was an ex- 
perimenter after somebody's heart and he had never 
spoken an unkind word to her. Oh, the devil snares 
some folks ! — Now, do take another glass ; you will need 
it this hot day. No ? — Well, she told me she was once 
a servant-girl in some outlandish place where they have 
fish pies — down Cornwall, I believe — and he was a me- 



1 86 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

chanic with an idea, a real, good fellow, poor, and there- 
fore obliged to travel for a living, but kind as the sun 
itself and bound to get out his idea. What the idea was 
I don't know ; it had something to do with telegraph- 
wires. He went exhibiting his machine in gentlefolks' 
houses, and turned over many a honest penny. But I 
was scared, and I thought it best to keep to my tea and 
say my prayers for some time. Sevenpence, sir. Thank 
you. That is one, two, three, four, five — one shilling. 
Call again. Wish you a pleasant walk, but the weather 
is enough to roast a duck with the feathers on." 

We passed through Sydenham, another quiet, trim 
village, with a modern church. There is evidently no 
right of way through the yard, for the gate was locked. 
Possibly there was nothing to see there, or the people 
are not to be trusted with free access to* the graves of 
their dead or the house of their God. Another walk 
across the fields by shady hedgerows brought us to the 
road running from Towersey to Thame, and in a little 
while we reached the old familiar town. There was the 
railway bridge just as it was built some twenty years 
ago ; there, the school- buildings in Park street, musty 
with age, decay, old books and pleasant and unpleasant 
reminiscences. 

About thirteen miles from Oxford and forty-four from 
London is this ancient and interesting town. It is near 
the eastern edge of the county of Oxon, and its northern 
end begins on the banks of a brook bearing the same 
name as itself. At this end is Old Thame, and from 
that the town has grown almost entirely along the main 
highway ; so that it principally consists of one long 
built-up street toward the south, with a few smaller ones 



THAME. 187 

and some lanes branching off a little way on the eastern 
side. The two sides of this street are bent outward like 
a long-bow, gradually widening for about half a mile, 
and then as gradually narrowing in for another half 
mile. In the widest place an irregular pile of buildings, 
consisting of shops and the town- or market-hall, has 
been erected. Not far to the south of this brick island 
in the. street is the house where John Hampden died. 
The extension has been longitudinal ; the growth, slow. 
The railway-station is at the extreme south, about a mile 
and a half from the ancient parts near the river, and, 
though thereabouts the buildings are mostly new and the 
town has suffered further elongation in its attempts to 
embrace — or, at least, to touch — the vein of steel which 
connects it with the world's great arteries of trade and 
commerce, there is no remarkable increase of material 
prosperity or of city-like bustle. Life flows on in its 
calm, peaceful way ; the streets are clean and still ; the 
houses and the gardens seem to sleep in their quiet, an- 
tique dignity ; the people move leisurely about, sipping 
the honey from the flowers of business or of gossip and 
wisely taking their time, for they can live but once ; and 
all who go there soon feel that they have been happily 
left behind by the rush of time's waters, if not, indeed, 
carried by a reflex tide a long way back into the ages of 
the past. If happiness is to be found in repose and con- 
tentment in inactivity, then the three thousand souls who 
dwell in this place ought to set an example to the world ; 
and doubtless they would do so in a manner both be- 
coming and worthy if the world would but open its eyes 
and see them. But, alas ! like the traditional gems or 
flowers which pass their days unseen in ocean depths or 



1 88 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

bosky dells, the town which is so dear, and so justly 
dear, to its own inhabitants, is unknown to fame and 
almost to the maps ; and when some stranger afar off 
chances to hear of it, and further and more wonderfully 
chances to look it up in a gazetteer, he passes it over 
with a sort of contemptuous sigh : " Umph ! An old 
out-of-the-world, dead-and-alive place." And that, gen- 
tle reader, may be your sentence, though, if you be gen- 
tle in the truest sense of that term and will have patience 
to follow me along, you may end in agreeing with me 
that there is much that is delightful and lovely in that 
same old time-stranded town. 

Let us first look at the church. This is a noble and 
historic edifice, many parts of it of great age, cruciform, 
with a mighty tower rising minster-style from the inter- 
stice of the cross. It stands on a slight elevation a few 
hundred yards from the slowly-flowing Thame, with 
the vicarage a little nearer the river and the remains of 
the old prebendal house, now a private residence, a short 
distance farther along the stream. Around the sacred 
structure is the graveyard, filled, contrary to the usual 
custom, with tombs and mounds on every side. As a 
rule, none who died in the peace of the Church were 
buried in the northern part of the yard ; that was the 
region where the sun never shone and the bleak 
winds of winter swept over unhallowed graves. In the 
brightsome east and the sunny south lay the dead who 
slept the peace of paradise, and there in the early spring 
and through the long summer and into the late autumn 
loving hands brought offerings of flowers and loving 
hearts uttered the prayer that God would give even 
more light to his own who rest in him. And when 



THAME. 1 89 

the snow was on the ground and the Christmas joy 
reigned in the land, then, too, fond ones remembered 
those who had gone before, and placed a wreath of 
evergreen holly on their graves, token of perpetual 
love, and dropped the rich red berries on the white 
winter ground, spots of blood, as it were, even like 
unto the stains which fell from Calvary. No doubt 
here the people did as elsewhere, for in the old time 
there was an affectionate and ever-present clinging to 
those who had passed beyond the veil : they were 
never forgotten ; and there was a right of way through 
the churchyard, so that at any time the living might 
enter God's acre and offer up a Paternoster beside the 
grave of their heart's treasure. But at Thame — possi- 
bly because of the buildings toward the north — the 
general rule of not burying in that part does not obtain. 
The dead fill up the available space, so that a new por- 
tion has been added to the eastern end. I know other 
churchyards where the north is used. 

The main approach to the church is from the south 
side through a lovely avenue of lime trees. Such 
avenues are common in England, and, though this is 
not so glorious as some — say that at Stratford-on-Avon 
— yet it has stood for many generations, and along its 
noble path processions have moved hither and thither, 
now of rejoicing and now of sorrow, at one time of high 
ceremony and at another of humble town-worshippers. 
The appearance of the church inside is of mingled 
satisfaction and of various periods. The building has 
escaped restoration, so the old pews and galleries, the 
three-decker pulpit with the sounding-board and the 
tables of the Ten Commandments, the Creed and the 



I90 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Lord's Prayer over the altar, remain. With the un- 
sightliness of the last century come in bits of late 
mediaeval belongings. Near the door is the antique 
alms-box, and a little farther in the old font, both 
probably of pre-Reformation age. There are no crosses 
or candles in the building, the tendency of the parish 
being to an extreme Protestantism, nor is the image of 
St. Thomas of Canterbury, which once occupied an 
honored place, to be seen. Ancient rood-screens sep- 
arate the nave from the chancel and the transepts or 
chapels. The tombs are many and of extreme interest. 
In the centre of the chancel is a massive and exquisitely- 
carved monument to Lord and Lady Williams, dated, I 
think, 1559. It is cut in marble and alabaster, and he 
and she lie in full-length effigy, their feet resting against 
a greyhound and a horse and their bodies wearing the 
costume of the period. The whole is railed in and 
covered with a dingy red curtain, which is drawn back 
for the benefit of visitors. Lord Williams was a vigor- 
ous and violent medievalist, and had no sympathy with 
the reforms which had taken place under Henry VIII. 
and Edward. He took a prominent part in the sup- 
pression of the new practices and was a leading spirit 
in the martyrdom of the prelates at Oxford. No doubt, 
when he saw the ashes of Latimer and of Ridley, he 
thought the end of their work was also near ; nor may 
we deem him and others who did as he aught but hon- 
est and earnest men — more desirous, indeed, in their 
conversation and love to defend and maintain the an- 
cient faith and customs than in their zeal wantonly to 
cause reverend prelates and tender women to suffer the 
pains of death. But the irony of fate is written across 



THAME. 



I 9 I 



the times. Lord Williams rests within the sanctuary 
where once he heard the mass sung and beheld the 
glories of the worship he loved, but over his tomb an 
office is said and words are preached which he de- 
nounced and resisted. A bitter opponent of Protest- 
antism rests in a Protestant place of worship ; a Prot- 
estant place of worship shelters in its most sacred 
precinct a bitter opponent of Protestantism. The sin- 
gular thing about the tomb is that the feet are to- 
ward the west. I can find no reason for this unique 
position, and conjecture is useless. 

Lord Williams, however, was not wholly occupied in 
the suppression of Protestantism. His was an active and 
a public life — partly that of a courtier and partly that of 
a country gentleman — and seems to have been graced 
with the virtues of generosity, kindliness of spirit and 
nobility of mind. In the reign of Henry VIII. he was 
keeper of the king's jewels, and also one of the com- 
missioners for the dissolution of the monasteries, pos- 
sibly visiting the abbeys and the priories of Oxfordshire 
with John Tregonwell in the autumn of 1536. By his 
purchase, in 1539, of the ancient seat of the Quarter- 
mains, at Rycote, his position and authority in the 
county were increased, and in 1553, when Lady Jane 
Grey was forced by her ambitious friends to receive the 
crown, he gathered some seven thousand men and at 
Thame and elsewhere boldly proclaimed Mary to be the 
rightful queen. A few days later he and his Oxfordshire 
men accompanied the daughter of Catherine of Arragon 
in her triumphal progress into London, and his royal 
mistress recognized his fidelity by making him a peer 
of the realm. It was to him that Queen Mary entrusted 

13 



I92 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

the princess Elizabeth when she sent her as a prisoner 
from the Tower to the royal bowers of Woodstock. At 
that time the life of the future Virgin Queen was dark 
and doubtful. Only by the barest chance did she escape 
execution in the Tower; and when the tidings came 
that she should be separated from her servants and go 
to Woodstock, she considered herself in great peril and 
was filled with mournful dread. But Lord Williams, 
while he fulfilled his trust with honesty to his sov- 
ereign, showed unusual kindness to Elizabeth. Possibly 
he remembered the beautiful and witty Anne Boleyn, 
and was moved to pity by the wrongs and sorrows of 
the comely daughter of his old king. When asked 
if treachery were purposed, he sturdily exclaimed, 
" Marry, God forbid that any such wickedness should 
be intended ! which rather than it should be wrought, I 
and my men will die at her feet." When in their prog- 
ress they reached his house at Rycote, he gave her a 
princely and hospitable entertainment, treating her, in 
the presence of a noble company of knights and ladies, 
with the honor due to her exalted rank. Free was the 
mirth and loud was the song that night — May 22, 1554. 
The lord of Rycote had converted the old manor-house 
into domestic offices, and close by had built a large and 
glorious mansion — verily, a palace. In hall and in 
kitchen boundless hospitality was displayed. The 
drooping spirits of the princess revived; and when 
some one warned the generous host of the possible con- 
sequences of his thus acting toward the queen's prison- 
er, he warmly replied " that, let what would befall, Her 
Grace might and should be merry in his house." 
Nothing remains of the noble house at Rycote; the 



THAME. 



193 



male line also ceased in the lord lying in the alabaster 
tomb ; and whether the zealous and loyal man at the last 
softened toward the professors of the new faith I know 
not — only, in 1559, when dying, he sent for the godly 
John Jewel, lately returned from exile, to visit him. 

In the chancel are other tombs — among them, partly 
let into a recess in the wall, one to Sir John Clerke, 
dated 1539. There is also a brass to Edward Harriss, 
1597, and high up, hanging from the wall, is the helmet 
of one of the Clerkes, with vizor and all complete. 
Visitors are told it is the one which Sir John Clerke 
wore in the ancient wars — an indefinite statement, but 
perhaps referring to the Battle of the Spurs. In the 
chapels are also tombs of great age and interest. In 
that on the north side is one, altar-shaped, to Sir 
John Dormer. On the top is a brass of himself and 
his two wives, and at their feet are brasses, arranged 
in three groups — one of which has been stolen — of his 
twenty-five children. It is of the year 1502. In the 
south are even greater attractions. In one corner, high 
up in the wall, is carved a full-length figure of an 
ecclesiastic. It may possibly represent a bishop, but 
whether originally built in the wall or removed from 
some position in the floor I do not know. The robes, 
the features and the hands clasping a book to the breast 
are plain, though the stone is much worn and of great 
age. There is an aumbry underneath it, implying the 
former existence of an altar close by. Probably the 
tomb to the Quartermains, dated 1400, stands upon the 
site of this altar, if, indeed, the tomb may not have been 
used as the altar itself. The figures on this tomb are in 
good preservation. On the brass around the edge of the 



194 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

marble slab may be read the piteous appeal to the visitor 
of his charity to say a Paternoster for the repose of the 
souls of those who lie beneath. Near by is a similar 
tomb to the Greys, but some vandal long ago stole the 
best part of the brasses, and the date is therefore un- 
certain. 

As one looks upon these monuments of men who 
lived their life centuries since, one realizes more than 
ever the strangeness of time. They once frequented 
this sacred building ; they were the great men of the 
neighborhood — worthy, let us hope, of the distinction — 
and to their dependants, whose names are forgotten and 
whose dust has long since mingled with common earth, 
kind and forbearing. With hawk on their fist and hound 
at their feet or clad in coat of mail and armed with sword 
and lance, they came to worship that God who is the 
Father of us all. List to the lordly walk along the 
echoing aisle, and think of the life and power, the proud 
authority and noble dignity, which are manifest in every 
step ! They once saw these same walls, rejoiced in this 
same sun and felt these same emotions ; now they lie in 
mouldering dust, and the immortality in sculptured 
tomb and charitable bequest which they had fondly 
hoped would have been theirs is fast passing away. The 
idle tourist reads their names, the greedy poor receive 
their doles, but without interest in them, and even the 
congregation worshipping beside them and in the sanctu- 
ary which some of them may have helped to build or to 
beautify forgets them in its prayers, or, if it chance to 
think of them, regards a petition offered up to God on 
their behalf as superstitious and vain. Yet once masses 
were offered up and prayers were said at these altar- 



THAME. 



195 



tombs, and, rightly or wrongly, people sought to realize 
the communion of saints as unbroken by death. 

It is worthy of remark that in old time epitaphs rarely 
— possibly, never — referred to the moral qualities of the 
deceased in any but a deprecatory way. Generally 
speaking, the name and the titles only are given ; some- 
times the words are added, " miserable sinner." It was 
left to the last century to indulge in rhapsodies such as 
the following. This paragon of perfection, by name 
Robert Crews, died in January, 173 1, at the age of sixty 
years : 

" He was an Humble, Obsequious Son, 
A Tender, Affectionate Brother, 
A Peaceable, Benevolent Neighbour, 
He kept up the good old Hospitality, 
His Liberal Table was spread to ye Hungry, 
His purse open to the Necessitous, 
Generous without Affectation, 
Just in His actions and Sincere to His Friend, 
A Pattern of Patience, Humility, 
Charity, Good Nature and Peace." 

Look up into the lofty clerestory and observe the well- 
preserved and admirably-carved figures ; the sculptured 
stone speaks of many things. In the nave first comes 
one placed over the pulpit, as if looking to see that the 
people are giving all attention, and opposite to it is one 
with hands crossed on the breast, as if accepting the 
truth and resigning the soul to it. Then come a crowned 
king on one side and a mitred bishop on the other ; then 
an angel with clasped hands in prayer, opposite to one 
with open hands in benediction ; afterward another king 
and bishop as before, and next to these an angel playing 
a harp, and on the other side an angel playing with 



I96 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

cymbals. In the west-end corners are, on the south 
side, an angel holding a pen in hand, as though to re- 
cord the shortcomings of the congregation, and on the 
north side another angel, pointing to an open book — 
perhaps the Book in which is written the way of life 
and forgiveness. In the south aisles are also heads, 
much worn and some almost gone, but there is one de- 
noting Mirth and another Sorrow. Doubtless Age and 
Youth, Wisdom and Folly, were also depicted. Many 
of these figures look down upon the worshippers, and 
here as elsewhere it must have been something, in an 
age of art and faith, for the people to look up from their 
devotions and behold these faces, so full of meaning and 
expression. Surely they were unto them as messengers 
from the King ! By the side of the door, in the old 
stone porch, are also heads, now barely decipherable, 
but no doubt once full of the expression of welcome to 
the incoming worshippers. There are also some at the 
great windows — angels peeping out of God's blessed 
sanctuary to watch over the loved ones who sleep in the 
still yard outside. Nor is the interior alone in this re- 
spect. On the high northern wall of the nave, looking 
toward the north-west, is a figure in splendid preserva- 
tion. It is gazing skyward eagerly and expectantly, 
with every feature of the face marked with sweet and 
longing expression. Possibly it may denote the desire 
for the Divine Presence to abide with the brethren who 
in past days lived in the religious house in that direc- 
tion, or, as possibly, the looking for the procession 
wending its way therefrom to the holy sanctuary. As 
the warm rays of the July afternoon sun lighted upon it, 
it seemed in its grace and loveliness to breathe forth 



THAME. I97 

a benediction over churchyard, tree-tops and river- 
meadow, even such as angels breathe when from the 
battlemented walls of the Golden City they look, down 
upon the distant plains of earth. There are also huge 
grotesque faces — evil spirits fleeing from the presence of 
the Lord, utilized by the old builders for waterspouts, 
belching out of their gaping mouths the floods of ill, 
and in two or three instances used by the sparrows in 
which to build their nests. A sundial has the signif- 
icant word " Jerusalem " across its face. 

The associations of the place sacred both by time and 
by purpose must needs be many. It is a privilege to 
walk where holy feet have trod, and to look upon 
things which once met the gaze of those who have long 
since been with God. The church is the centre of a 
town's history. Here generation after generation met 
and worshipped. In life they worked together ; in death 
they lie side by side. From the font to the grave each 
walked the same path, knew the other's hopes and 
sorrows, had a common interest in the things around 
him. The house of God was the home of all, and rich 
and poor met together because the Lord was their 
Maker. Before the church porch they gathered as the 
bells chimed for service and talked over the events of 
the past week; within, they listened to the words that 
should make them wise for ever. What a blank in the 
old life there would have been without the church, itself 
the symbol, the witness, of unity — the shrine to which 
the many feet wended their way ! Time seems nothing 
amid such surroundings ; the past melts into the present, 
the mists of ages lift, and the eye beholds armored 
knights, cowled monks, buskined yeomen, foresters, 



I98 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

artisans, laborers and men-at-arms as in the bygone 
days they thronged these consecrated walls. There were 
old men and women bent and gray with years ; stalwart, 
hearty folk of middle life ; lovers young and hopeful — 
my brave Harry and my rosy-cheeked Margery; and 
boys and girls, thoughtful, mischievous, playful, good 
and bad — just as we see them now. As I stand before 
the eastern window and the great bell in the tower ut- 
ters its slow and heavy toll, heralding some one to the 
grave prepared beyond the lime trees, I think, though 
dissimilar in outward things, yet in essentials how alike 
the ages are ! There are few nobler or more interesting 
buildings than that old church of Thame. 

Under the southern wall is the tomb of a good and 
holy man who some years since was vicar of this parish. 
Ere long the inscription thereon will be obliterated, for 
in this English atmosphere stones speedily become dark- 
ened and lichen-covered, and the new appears as the 
old. As we pass from the church down the narrow lane 
which leads into the High street of the town we may re- 
call the kindly clergyman whose memory is dear to 
many of his former parishioners. This building on the 
left hand is the grammar-school. It was founded and 
the house built in the year 1569, and might have been 
as great as Eton or Harrow had the Fates been in its 
favor. The endowment is considerable, and a quarter of 
a century since the school had four or five masters and 
one scholar. Some of the masters were very good 
cricketers, and, as the mind of their solitary pupil was 
like unto a narrow-necked bottle, they could not occupy 
their time in forcing into him the wine of wisdom or the 
syrup of knowledge. While all, therefore, received their 



THAME. 1 99 

allotted stipends, one did the duty. The ecclesiastical 
commissioners made a change in this happy state of af- 
fairs, and now many of the townsmen avail themselves 
of Lord Williams's foundation. This was the Lord Wil- 
liams already spoken of, and it is not unworthy the at- 
tention of those who profit by his beneficence that he by 
no means approved of the views which for three cen- 
turies have been taught in his school. His money has 
gone to make men after the pattern of those whom he 
helped to burn at Oxford. Peace to his soul, that is his 
punishment. And the good vicar, the Rev. Mr. Prosser, 
whose name I write with a tender reverence, was one 
who through a long and faithful ministry stood up man- 
fully for the Protestant character of the Church of Eng- 
land. It would not have daunted him if Lord Williams 
had come out of his marble tomb with a score of his 
men-at-arms and haled him to prison ; he was ready to 
die as Cranmer had done. Not that he was a bitter con- 
troversialist. He sought to soften men's hearts with the 
doctrines of Christ rather than to inflame them with the 
passions of party. It was more by his gentle, loving 
example, his kind words and peaceful counsels, than by 
violent denunciations or pessimistic utterances, that he 
won souls. Yes; were those old timbered houses on 
the other side of the Atlantic, there would be a sign 
giving particulars concerning them. He visited his 
people and discharged his duties with a fidelity akin to 
that of Chaucer's Poor Parson, and among those in para- 
dise are doubtless many who throughout eternity shall 
rise up and call him blessed. I see him now, with his 
hand on a little curly-head, teaching the boy the words, 
" God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten 



200 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Son." When the text is learned, the lad will be richer 
by sixpence and will have a lesson to remember for life. 
The wants and the cares of his flock were his own. To 
the troubled he gave sympathy ; to the needy, alms. It 
was rumored among the Baptists — who were of a kind 
known as Particular — that he believed in doctrines of 
grace, and would have preached them only he was afraid 
of being sent to prison by his bishop. Other dissenters 
in the town, however, used to say he had too much 
sense to believe anything of the sort, and the only fault 
they had with him was that he preached with a manu- 
script and took tithes. The tithes were as small as the 
sermons were long, so that his income was not to be 
compared with his outlay. Dear old man ! in the sim- 
plicity and goodness of his heart he would have preached 
the whole of the longest day in the year if thereby he 
could have saved one poor child out of heresy and 
schism. He has gone to his rest, and the church is as 
he left it, and it will be some time yet before Lord Wil- 
liams will turn over in his tomb to the Introibo of the 
Mass or to the majesty of the Gregorian tone. 

The High street is very still this warm day, and, in- 
deed, except when the market is being held, it is seldom 
otherwise. There are some old houses, but not many 
of great age. The inns look respectable and clean, and 
thrive as much upon village visitors as upon the towns- 
people themselves. The best hostel in the place has the 
Transatlantic cognomen of the " Spread Eagle," but the 
sign looks as though it were painted some time before 
Christopher of famous memory turned his vessel's prow 
toward the Western strand. They who desire English 
cheer good and solid, native-grown mutton and deep 



THAME. 201 

foaming ale, can have it here. The mahogany under- 
neath which the traveller will rest his wearied legs is 
massive and suggestive of club dinners. The guests all 
sit down to the one table and eat and drink in silence ; 
John likes to do one thing at a time : " Shall I not take 
mine ease in mine inn ?" An hour and a half at the 
Spread Eagle will make a man happy as a king and su- 
premely indifferent to earthquakes, taxes, gnats, news- 
papers and policemen. There are some shops — grocers, 
drapers, haberdashers, stationers, and the like — but the 
front door rings a bell when it is opened, so as to bring 
the elsewhere-occupied shopman to the counter. This 
suggests small custom. The chapels belong to some of 
the moderately-thriving tradesmen, who attend and con- 
trol them until they themselves have gained a higher so- 
cial position, and then they go to the parish church. 

Up an intricate back lane was once the meeting-house 
of the Baptists — a highly-respectable folk, but, like the 
conies, feeble and abiding in retired places. It was not 
necessarily choice which drove dissenters to build their 
chapels in such out-of-sight holes and corners, but the 
unfortunate exigences of circumstances. No one would 
imagine there was any such place up this long, winding 
alley. Before an adverse force could get to the trem- 
bling worshippers warning could be given thern, and 
they could scatter themselves in the neighboring gar- 
dens and back yards. The house was a square one, 
strongly built, with its roof shaped like a pyramid. 
Inside, it had a gallery at one end and at the other a 
pulpit near the ceiling. High pews, stiff and bare, typi- 
cal of the stern religious convictions of the congrega- 
tion, filled the building. There was no musical instru- 



202 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

ment, not even a tuning-fork, and the hymns — very long 
and very tedious — were given out and sung two lines at 
a time. An old farmer fervent in piety and simple in 
taste for many years ministered to the flock. He needed 
no paper and no preparation for his sermons : all he did 
was to stand the big Bible up on its back and let it fall 
open at any place by chance ; then the first passage his 
eye lighted on became his text, and he went on for up- 
ward of an hour and a quarter. Frequently he spoke to 
edification ; and when he had exhausted the wiles of the 
devil and the wickedness of the world, he had always 
the enormities of the Church of England to fall back 
upon. It is probable that he thanked God every day of 
his life that Providence had created the Church for 
his special benefit. Certainly, had it not existed he 
would have been without a subject two-thirds of his 
time — unless, to be sure, Satan had manifested himself 
in some similar ecclesiastical form. The farmer-preacher 
was popular with his people. The only time their affec- 
tion for him was shaken was when an aged sister saw 
him speaking in the street to that man of evil the parish 
curate. He seemed to be on good terms with him — a 
thing bordering dangerously upon the unpardonable sin 
and not to be endured for a day. But when the anxious 
flock knew that their pastor was only cross-examining 
the curate on the idolatrous and profane doctrine of bap- 
tismal regeneration with a view to exposing and refuting 
that abominable belief, they were satisfied and compla- 
cently quoted one to another, " Wise as serpents !" The 
trouble which seemed to weigh most with the good old 
man was the apparent oblivion in which the vicar sank 
him. No matter how much he spoke against the Church, 



THAME. 203 

the Church went on as though he were not. This was 
provoking, of course, for there is little satisfaction in 
knocking about a man who will not strike back. At 
last the congregation decided to leave the house where 
it had met for upward of a century, if not for two cen- 
turies, and to build a chapel in the light of the sun and 
the town. It stands farther up the main street, and from 
the day it was first occupied to this the members have 
been unhappy. They were better off in the old place. 
They tried to bury their past; they did, indeed, bury 
their ancient pastor, and they have grieved over the 
grave and quarrelled over the will ever since. 

I remember attending a service in the old chapel many 
years ago. It was in May, when the apple trees in a 
garden close by, seen from the gallery, were in bloom. 
The building was filled in every part ; some, indeed, oc- 
cupied the pulpit with the preacher. A stranger deliv- 
ered a special sermon, but the occasion I have forgotten. 
He had a clear, earnest voice, an impassioned delivery, 
and, though evidently uncultured, was well read in the 
Scriptures and in the Christian experience. It was late 
in the afternoon, and the long, low sunlight swept across 
the still and intensely attracted congregation, a strange, 
soft weirdness making one realize mysterious things. 
The text was from Habakkuk : " God came from Teman, 
and the Holy One from mount Paran. Selah. His 
glory covered the heavens, and the earth was full of his 
praise." The Divine Presence was not only described : 
it was felt. As the preacher went on with graphic force 
to speak of the glory and the praise the people were 
wrapped in silence and emotion. There was no stir, no 
restlessness; no one seemed to breathe. The shadows 



204 THE HE ART 0F MERRIE ENGLAND. 

lengthened, the sunlight died away, gloom stole over the 
land, but the people listened on and looked upon the 
streaming glory from Teman and the dazzling radiance 
from Paran. Then the preacher sat down, but the still- 
ness was unbroken. In awe and wonder people waited 
in the gloaming, as if expecting to see the darkness pass 
away and God appear. The spell was relieved by some 
one beginning the " Praise God, from whom all blessings 
flow," and instantly the large assembly rose to its feet 
and sang aloud. How the old building echoed with the 
sound of many voices ! And all went away feeling that 
for once — perhaps only for once in this life — they had 
seen the glories of the land beyond the silent stars. 

Stand with me for a few minutes in the shade near this 
pond in the street, and before we take ourselves to the 
station let me present to you two or three more of the 
old inhabitants of the town. 

This stout ancient gentleman in the knee-breeches and 
broad-brimmed hat standing at the corner of East street 
and High is one of the honored and honorable members 
of the community. He is a Quaker, and through his 
long and useful life has been both an ornament to his 
society and a benefit to his fellow-men. The only weak- 
ness known to the public of which he has been guilty is 
writing what he is pleased to call poetry ; but in this he 
is not singular. A neighbor and tenant of his, a sawyer 
by trade and a dog-fancier by way of amusement, is fond 
of writing obituary and satirical lines. Whenever any 
one of consequence in the neighborhood dies, or when- 
ever the zeal of the Wesleyans — against whom he has a 
violent antipathy — breaks out in extraordinarily volcan- 
ic-like fervor, good John Potter leaves his log which he 



THAME. • 205 

is sawing and, accompanied by two or three of his favor- 
ite dogs, goes to the " Cross Keys," there at the corner, 
and with mine host Howlett's strong ale soon reaches a 
stage of spirituous and poetic exhilaration. A few hours 
later, in his back parlor, redolent with divers aromas — 
for his wife makes ginger beer and takes in dyeing and 
is as fond of cats and jackdaws as he is of dogs — the 
worthy disciple of the Muses may be found driving his 
quill, scratching his head, swearing at the world in gen- 
eral and at the partner of his joys in particular, sipping 
his potion of porter qualified with an unknown quantity 
of Scotch of unknown strength, and thus evolving slowly 
and painfully stanzas, rhymes and fantasies which shall 
be the wonder of the world when the world has nothing 
else to do but read them. Fortunately, a policeman 
lodges a few doors away, and the poet's wife and that 
guardian of the peace take John off to bed before any 
serious damage is done. The next morning both the au- 
thor and the poem are ready — the one for the saw-pit and 
the other for the press ; and when the latter has done its 
work, a copy is sent with Mr. John Potter's compliments 
to our good friend the Quaker. It has been said — but 
neither you nor I can believe it as we look into his calm, 
honest face as he stands there looking up into the poplar 
trees to see which way the wind is blowing — that the 
Quaker snorts and fumes and exhibits emotions of a dan- 
gerous tendency when he receives and reads his neigh- 
bor's effusions. He has even been charged with throw- 
ing the copy behind the fire, and then, being uncertain as 
to some line but faintly remembered, and his curiosity 
growing greater as his memory grows less, has sent to 
ask Mr. Potter to do him the favor of giving him an- 



206 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

other copy. The sawyer-poet is flattered and delighted : 
his rival is doubtless impressed ; he has pleasure too ex- 
tensive to be set forth in an ordinary foolscap sheet of 
paper in acceding to his request. A few days later, and 
within an envelope John finds the copy with emendations 
and criticisms crushing and severe, and a request that he 
will pay up the five weeks' arrears of rent without fur- 
ther delay — even more crushing and severe. But John 
is not vanquished. The poem is dedicated to some local 
patron ; and when it is presented, John receives a guinea 
— perhaps two guineas, for the gentry are careful to 
encourage incipient genius and do not wish to have the 
misfortunes of Goldsmith or the tragedy of Chatterton 
repeated — and armed with that John calls upon his land- 
lord, gives him a piece of his mind and pays his rent in 
full. 

Our Quaker, however, is not harsh, though his treat- 
ment of his brother-genius may seem so. He is kind to 
his tenants ; and when they bring their rent he gives 
each of the children an apple or a dose of camphor and 
nitre. The latter is in cases where he thinks medicine 
is needed, and it is always taken, because he is a great 
man and a wise man. He also lends books to the good 
boys of the neighborhood. He quarrels with no one, 
and, as he and his wife are the only Quakers in the town, 
his dining-room does for a place of worship ; and some 
evilly- and carnally-minded folks have said that the two 
Friends have sat there in silence the whole of a Sunday 
afternoon, not uttering a word and only bobbing their 
heads at each other. Be this as it may, he always pays 
his tithe and treats the parson with respect. 

The old man is charitably disposed. As he comes 



THAME. 207 

down the street toward us he stops to speak to that 
woman who in sun-bonnet and shabby black dress is 
going in the opposite direction. She keeps a bakery not 
far from here, is a Baptist, and looks upon Quakers and 
people of that stamp as self-righteous Pharisees and not 
much better than ignorant and worldly churchmen. But 
she has a son who has brought her trouble — woeful trou- 
ble not to be spoken about — and were we nearer we 
should hear the kindly Friend's customary greeting : " Is 
thee well to-day ?" See ! without waiting for a reply he 
slips a gold coin into her hand and passes on. She 
looks at it ; a tear comes into her eye ; a vision of hope 
passes before her ; and she lifts up her heart to God that 
he will bring that man into the truth, save him from his 
legalism and will-worship and make him an heir of 
glory. 

Farther on, nearly opposite where we are standing, is 
the barber's shop. Mr. Simon is a tailor by trade and 
a Methodist by profession. His shaving and haircutting 
is an extra accomplishment, done because there is no 
one else at this end of the town competent to reduce 
stubbly beards or to make a feather-lock on a boy's 
crown. He is a deliberate man : he walks, eats, talks, 
snuffs, snips his scissors, sneezes, in a deliberate way. 
When he is serious, as at prayer-meetings or when shav- 
ing some unknown stranger, he is very deliberate. He 
has frequently prayed down two inches of tallow candle, 
and not a few of the brethren have wished that Brother 
Simon's piety would run a little faster and his devotions 
keep within one snuffing of the candle ; but the sisters 
think him exactly and edifyingly right. When engaged 
in controversy, as is often the case, he is somewhat of 
14 



208 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Sir Roger de Coverley's turn of mind, and thinks there 
is much to be said on both sides of the question. On 
only two things are he and the principal man in the Bap- 
tist chapel fully agreed — first, that the Church is a nest- 
bed of popery and wickedness ; and secondly, that the 
parson and the Quaker are good men, but not after God's 
own heart. The Baptist man is a butcher, and they deal 
with each other, but they have never prayed together 
for Church, parson or Quaker, because the one is doubt- 
ful if the other has true saving knowledge, after all. 
How a man can say he loves God and not take to elec- 
tion and immersion is the problem on the one side, and 
how he could love God and take to them is the problem 
on the other. They have discussed the question over 
and over again, but without any further result than mak- 
ing the tailor-barber threaten to buy no beef from the 
butcher, and the butcher declare that he will neither 
send his cloth to the tailor-barber nor come himself to 
have his hair cut. But the breeze passes over, and each 
generously forgives the other ; only, when the Baptist 
remarks that he will pray for his erring brother that he 
may see the light, Brother Simon replies more deliber- 
ately and freezingly than ever, " I rather think you had 
better pray for yourself." 

Now, if there was any person in Thame or in the re- 
gion round about of whom Brother Simon had a com- 
plete and wholesome dread, it was the district visitor. 
When she died, he said " Thank God !" with a full and 
grateful heart. She was an indefatigable lady of middle 
life, full of zeal and discretion and a loyal and patriotic 
churchwoman. Within her part of the town she visited 
every house regularly once a fortnight. She knew noth- 



THAME. 209 

ing about dissenters and honestly refused to recognize 
them. Were they not all English people ? and therefore 
did they not all belong to the Church of the English 
people? So she visited Wesleyans, and nursed sick 
Baptists, and gave presents to Independent boys and 
girls, and lent money to everybody, irrespective of sect 
or denomination. Her influence was, therefore, very 
great, and, though she would no more think of going 
into the Baptist meeting-house than she would of going 
into the Red Lion bowling-alley, she was much beloved 
by every one. Even the Quaker approved of her, and, 
being somewhat of a genealogist and antiquary, thought 
of trying to ascertain if she were not a descendant or a 
relative of a good Quaker family ; but when he intimated 
this to her and she warmly repudiated the possibility, he 
gave up the idea. Only Brother Simon could not endure 
her. When she called, he treated her with scant cour- 
tesy, and the tract which she left he carefully stuck high 
up behind the looking-glass, so that no one might see it 
and she might have it unread when she called again. 
She had a strong objection to those personal appeals 
which at one time were characteristic of Wesleyans, and 
she told our friend that she thought such very rude and 
vulgar — that, as at a table no polite host would press 
his guest to take that for which he did not care and had 
declined, so no minister having self-respect would force 
upon people that which they did not desire. Religion, 
she added, was not like medicine, to be given as mothers 
give children castor-oil — with a spoon and a rod. But 
as Brother Simon had never in his life dined with a gen- 
tleman and was in the habit, when he had a guest at his 
table, of making him eat as much as he would hold, 



210 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

after the manner of the plebeian English, he did not see 
the force of the objection ; and, as for castor-oil, he al- 
ways gave it to his children with black-currant jam. The 
district visitor was doubtless without the light. She was 
lost in the Church ; poor soul ! she was gone. He had 
heard of two or three young men who had been very 
near the Lord's vineyard led off by her persuasion to 
attend the Litany service at the parish church on Sun- 
day afternoons, and of no less than seven girl-probation- 
ers who had gone one after another to be bishoped. It 
was an outrage, and he gave it out as his deliberate and 
conclusive judgment : " That lady's a proselytizer ; I say 
it knowingly, and I say it dee-leeburatelee. As sure as 
her dress has flounces and her hair is done up in curls, 
her soul has all the phalacteries of Pharisaism and her 
mind has all the crookedness of the kingdom of Satan." 
The sun is fast dropping behind the trees, and soon 
the train for Oxford will be due. This street on the left 
is the highway to London. The stage-coach rolled 
along that road less than thirty years since, and there 
was a something sweeter than the whistle of an engine 
in the winding notes of the postboy's horn. How 
cheerily it sounded in the clear, frosty air ! Letters and 
strangers from great London far away! Well, forty- 
four miles was a long distance in those days, and the 
man who had been there was thought something of a 
traveller. The pound of real gunpowder tea, at fourpence 
or sixpence an ounce, which he brought back lasted a 
long time and was considered a luxury proper only for 
sick folks and for Christmas. Taken with milk, it was 
good ; with the least drop of brandy, excellent. There 
are birds' nests in the hedges on that road, and a mile 



THAME. 2 1 1 

or so from here a footpath leading down to the river, 
where perch and pike abound. I know a good soul — 
even such a one as Izaak himself — who has drawn 
many a wriggling eel and weighty jack out of that water, 
a man whose heart at the sight of rod and line leaps as 
the trout to the fly on a summer day. There are no 
game laws relating to fish, only the question of trespass- 
ing on the land ; but it is not every one who has the 
skill to profit by free access to the river. The fish in 
these old streams are cunning and wary and up to most 
devices of the angler. Among the flags and the rushes 
on the banks are frogs such as the sharks of the fresh 
water love, and under the willow-bark are grubs and 
caddis which are as irresistible to a carp or a chub as he 
is himself to a finny or a human epicure. In the late 
afternoon you may often see some one with rod and 
wicker basket turning up this street, bent for that same 
quiet stream. 

This Park street, through which we pass to the rail- 
way-station, was a glorious place to the schoolboys 
when hid within a November fog. Then the vision was 
limited by the thick yellow mist, and shrill voices cried 
their " Halloo !" and " Tally-ho !" and nimble feet ran 
hide-and-seek. English people are tenacious and assert- 
ive of their rights — even English boys. A funeral of a 
little fellow was once wending its way down this street 
to the parish church. Four schoolmates carried the 
small coffin and the friends walked behind : hearses were 
unknown in that part of the country. Last of all came 
a maid and the only brother of the deceased. He was 
crying bitterly, not only for the loss of one dear to him, 
but also because the physician concluded that cherry 



212 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

turnovers were the cause of the untimely mortality, and 
he therefore should have no more. He was very fond 
of his brother ; he was also very fond of cherry turn- 
overs. However, a short distance down the street, 
another boy — one who was not invited to the funeral — 
came up to our weeping lad and wished to walk beside 
him. This was a privilege to which he had no right, 
and he was instantly and decisively ordered off. He de- 
clined to leave ; the nurse remonstrated, but the dignity 
of the funeral was in question, and grief gave way to 
threats and feelings of violence. That evening, in a 
back lane, under some elder trees, two boys had a fight. 
When the mother of one of them came with her bruised 
and black-eyed son to the father of the other, his oppo- 
nent exclaimed, " It was my funeral ; he had no right to 
follow my brother or to stick himself in." 

That building on the right, behind the row of laurel- 
bushes, is the Royal British School. It is not of famous 
reputation, nor do I know that any of its scholars have 
reached any position of eminence. You might find some 
of the old boys wheelwrights and policemen — possibly, 
one a gamekeeper. Nevertheless, it was largely attend- 
ed in days of yore, and was remarkable for two things — 
a May-pole and a master. The former stood in the yard, 
here on the south side. Yes, it is gone, like many an- 
other good thing, but on the first day of the month of 
flowers it was adorned with festive and floral glory. 
The whole town turned out to keep May-day then, and 
there was a May-queen, sometimes the prettiest girl in 
the neighborhood, and sometimes, when no girl would 
act, the prettiest boy : sex made no difference. Old 
folks came to look on; even the Quaker, though he 



THAME. 213 

was not sure such things were right — possibly only ex- 
pedient, to please the youngsters. And the master ! 
Now, it is the master of whom I wish to speak, and 
as we walk on I will tell you about him. He took 
part in the fun, you may be sure, and everybody 
thought he was only a boy grown old. His accom- 
plishments were varied. First of all, he was a Welsh- 
man and knew how to pronounce a word with eighteen 
consonants and only three vowels in it. Then he was a 
musician and could sing a song and scrape a violin. 
And lastly he was an economic and, as he was very 
poorly paid, knew how to make a decent living out of 
poverty. Where thrift is an object, it is well to have it 
taught by experienced teachers. Besides these gifts, he 
was a small man, very fond of potatoes and geography 
— he would hoe the one and talk about the other at the 
same time — had a wife, dabbled in local zoology, rode a 
dandy-horse, the precursor of the bicycle, read Sir Wal- 
ter Scott, knew a little carpentering, kept rabbits and 
canaries and was looked upon with respect by all who 
knew him. The masters at the grammar-school did 
not know him, and therefore could not be expected to 
think anything of him ; but their pupil did, and, not 
altogether liking his solitude, used to mingle with 
these ruder boys, and, all things considered, got a fair 
amount of pleasure out of life. It was he who advised 
the rubbing of the master's cane with a lemon. During 
a mid-day recess it was done, placed in the sun to dry, 
and in the afternoon when applied to a boy's shoulders 
it split into fragments. It was he also who knew the 
intricacies of tit-tat-too and how to win all the fellows' 
taws. Nobody could make whistles out of willow-sticks 



214 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

as well as he, and nobody else could talk Welsh with 
the master. The latter thought him a clever and prom- 
ising lad and gave him many a hint concerning kidney 
potatoes and the use of the Latin subjunctive. It was 
rumored that they had frequently gone fishing togeth- 
er, and some one said that their intention was some day 
to go to New Zealand and buy a farm. That was ab- 
surd on the face of it, for the master stopped at potatoes 
and knew no more about fox-hunting — which is an es- 
sential qualification to good farming — than the man who 
was sent to the moon for gathering sticks on a Sunday. 
— Here is the train ! Oxford ? All right. Grand old 
place, Thame. Full of interest; church worth going 
many a mile to see. Tired ? Warm day and a long 
walk. Never mind; draw the blue curtain aside and 
let the last sunbeams in. — Well, yes, the old school- 
master is dead. He died years ago — some said studied 
to death and some said starved to death, but there is no 
telling. Teachers were not paid much in those days, 
and the wonder is there were any teachers at all. Com- 
mon people did not want their children to know more 
than plain reading and writing and the rule of three. 
They had been happy on less, and fine schooling was 
not for the likes of them. Now that is all changed. 
Education is the order of the day. Ploughboys have 
a chance to learn Greek, and girls whose mothers 
washed dishes at twopence an hour can embroider 
and play the piano. It is enough to disturb even 
Lord Williams and all the old squires at Aston Row- 
ant. And what will be the end ? You cannot have wait 
on you at table a fellow who knows the rudiments of 
Sanskrit and all about conic sections, nor can you have 



THAME. 



5 



to scrub your floor or to starch your collars a womati 
who can speak Italian and criticise Matthew Arnold. 
When everybody knows as much as you know, what will 
become of you ? Electricity, eh ? Nonsense ! Talk 
about electricity after a day spent in the country and a 
town whose only idea of a track of lightning is the trail 
of a snail across a cabbage-leaf! In America we have 
the negro and the Irish to do our heavy labor and the 
Chinese to do our washing, but what have you in Eng- 
land got ? No, the people here are dull ; we have seen 
more to-day than half the inhabitants hereabouts have 
seen in a lifetime. But they are going to wake up ; the 
schools are doing wonders. If the old master were to 
come back, he would shake his head and say, " Alas ! 
alas! Teaching the boys political economy and the 
girls botany ! And where is that obedience which 
only can make boys men and girls women ?" 

Oxford again. Woodstock, Chipping Norton, More- 
ton-in-the-Marsh. A few miles' drive in the clear, 
bright moonlight, and then we sleep amid lavender 
and shadows. 






CHAPTER IX. 

£lje pilgrimage to fflanterburg. 

" And specially, from every schires ende 
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
The holy blisful martir for to seeke, 
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke." 

No loyal churchman visiting England is likely to 
forego the pilgrimage to Canterbury. That is among 
his first duties, and is one of his chief pleasures. There 
is the cradle of English Christendom ; there, the throne 
of the primate and patriarch of the Anglican communion. 
If he seek but to gratify his love for history and art, 
here he will revel in associations and surroundings of 
rare and multiform nature, and in the splendor of re- 
ligious imagination and skill will feel as Mohammed did 
concerning Damascus : " After Canterbury, only para- 
dise." 

Our journey thitherward was made in a pleasant sun- 
ny morning. We could not, indeed, travel in the happy, 
leisurely way of dear old Chaucer's pilgrims, but the 
run by rail from Charing Cross through the glorious 
Kentish land — the country where the roses are redder 
and the grass is greener than in any other region in the 
kingdom — is of satisfying charm. The district is rich 
in fertile fields, thick hedgerows, noble trees, great hop- 
gardens and pretty towns and villages. There are sev- 

216 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 2\J 

eral tunnels — one two miles and a half long — within 
the first thirty miles. The road by which mine host of 
the Tabard led his guests is far to the north of this, and 
it is only the lack of time which compels one to avoid 
that long-honored highway to the shrine of the blissful 
St. Thomas. 

But this, notwithstanding, does not keep the mind 
from Chaucer. The morning sunlight, soft and roseate, 
falls upon the open volume of The Canterbury Tales in 
our hand — open, but, alas ! unread. Away fly the 
thoughts to the days when the Third Edward sat upon 
the throne of England, and, though many things, such 
as printing, railways, telegraphs, and sundry other in- 
ventions, have changed the appearances and conditions 
of life, yet one feels that nature and the inner and deeper 
flow of human existence remain very much the same. 
Man lives and loves the same, works, rejoices, sorrows 
and dies the same, through all the ages ; and the mys- 
terious and monotonous life moves steadily on through 
the centuries and the millenniums, not so much chang- 
ing itself as changing all around it. If there be one 
author more than another who convinces us of this fact, 
and in bringing us face to face with the men and the 
women of his day and generation shows us that they 
are of the same flesh and blood as ourselves, it is 
Geoffrey Chaucer. There is no more graphic picture of 
English life in the Middle Ages than that which he has 
given us. He introduces us, indeed, to a world differing 
widely from our own — a world in which manners and 
customs appear strange and the charm and the power 
of the age of faith and of chivalry are still vigorous 
and enchanting. Much that goes to make up our mod- 



2l8 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

ern civilization was then unknown. Warriors wore their 
armor and their coat of mail, and fought with bows and 
arrows, battering-rams and lances; ships spread their 
white sails to the winds and thought not of the days of 
steam ; the minstrel strolled through the land from vil- 
lage to village, from castle to castle, and told the gos- 
sip of the court and the country, and sang his lays of 
heroes to admiring villains, retainers, churls and gen- 
tlemen ; and the English people lived in a great wilder- 
ness-land with here and there roads running through the 
mighty primaeval forests, and fens undrained, and ham- 
lets built of wood and mud, and serfs bound to the soil, 
and abbeys hid away in woody glens, and quaint, busy 
towns, scattered along the river-banks or the great high- 
ways, for ever struggling for. their rights and working 
out the beginnings of England's urban and commercial 
splendor. But, in spite of all the differences, Chaucer 
teaches us that one feature changes not, and that is man. 
His characters are such as we may see any day of our 
life, or, to put it another way, were we transplanted to 
that age we would be the same as they whom he de- 
scribes. 

Chaucer was born in the city of London about the 
year 1340. His father was a wine-merchant with suf- 
ficient wealth and influence to give his son a good edu- 
cation and introduce him to the society of the court. 
In his lifetime our author served in the camp, the cus- 
tom-house and the Parliament; he tried his military 
prowess on continental battlefields and his diplomatic 
skill in foreign lands ; he mingled with the great and the 
learned, the witty and the wise, of his own and of other 
countries, and thus obtained a personal knowledge of 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 219 

human nature and character. He was a large, corpulent 
man with a small, fair and intelligent face, downcast, 
meditative eyes and a shy and weird expression of coun- 
tenance. Though a diligent student and somewhat her- 
mit-like in his mode of living, yet he loved good and 
pleasant society, enjoyed the pleasures of the festive 
board, entered heartily with his roguish genial humor 
and quaint fun into mirth and merrymaking, and was 
beloved by all who knew him. As a poet he does not 
stand beside the other princes of the art, Homer, Dante 
and Shakespeare, but he is among the first of those who 
come after them. Few can describe a scene or a cha- 
racter better than he, tell a more admirable story or 
write a truer or more melodious line of verse. " His 
best tales " — if I may use the words of a master-critic — 
" run on like one of our inland rivers, sometimes hasten- 
ing a little and turning upon themselves in eddies that 
dimple without retarding the current, sometimes loiter- 
ing smoothly, while here and there a quiet thought, a 
tender feeling, a pleasant image, a golden-hearted verse, 
opens quietly as a water-lily, to float on the surface 
without breaking it into ripple." Chaucer has little or 
nothing to do with those fields in which Dante and Mil- 
ton suffered their imagination to roam with such mag- 
nificent and sublime freedom. They lift the veil that 
hides the Unseen, and display, now to our delight and 
now to our horror, the mysteries of the eternal past and 
of heaven and hell. They lead the soul through dark- 
some, gruesome avenues and fearful, awe-subduing 
scenes full of shadows and suggestions that chill the 
blood and distress the mind. The faithful reader of the 
Divine Comedy and the Paradise Lost, while delighted 



220 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

with the glowing and finished imagery and the vast and 
splendid creations, will remain suspicious of the truth 
and half annoyed at the thought that the scenes before 
him are painted upon clouds, to be driven and scattered 
by the winds of reality. He will admit the general 
facts, but will question the verity or the verisimilitude 
of the poet's coloring. This is in itself a defect of art 
perhaps inseparable from the kind of subject with which 
Milton and Dante dealt, though the latter, being the 
more skilful artist and the greater poet, has it less 
marked than the former. What I mean by this is, one 
can go with Dante through the Inferno and Paradiso 
almost, but not entirely, thinking it to be true and real ; 
with Milton this power to absorb and to entrance ex- 
ists in a much less degree. But Chaucer avoids mys- 
tery, and therefore avoids these difficulties. There is 
not in his work — unless, possibly, it is in some of his 
renderings of legendary or foreign stories — a single im- 
possible character. His creations are of flesh and blood 
—of such flesh and blood as those of Shakespeare and 
those of our every- day life. There is no question of 
truth or of falsehood : that does not arise ; and as an 
illustration of this it may be noted that to this day it is 
uncertain whether the prologue to the Canterbury Tales 
be fact or fiction. Defoe had the faculty of presenting 
fiction as truth — his History of the Plague and his Rob- 
inson Crusoe are remarkable instances of this — but I 
think, admitting the art, no one would maintain the re- 
ality. Certainly, a company of learned men would not 
sit down seriously to consider the fact or the invention 
of the hero of juvenile life. Here and there the robe is 
thrust aside and the void appears. But you may try 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 221 

your best with Chaucer's prologue, apply to it every 
canon of criticism that you like, and you will utterly fail 
to decide that it is not true and literal. 

What a group does the poet present to us in his 
Canterbury pilgrims ! How vivid and how real they ap- 
pear ! All sorts and conditions are there — men of war, 
ecclesiastics, shipmen, merchants, tradesmen, servants, 
farmers and women of both the world and the Church. 
Their idiosyncrasies are described and an individuality 
is imparted with true dramatic power. Once master 
the description of any one of them, and that one for 
ever remains distinct in the mind. No one can forget 
Madam Eglentyne, the prioress, " that of her smiling 
was full simple and coy," so expert in singing the 
" service divine, entuned in her nose full seemly," so 
gracious in her manner and learned in her language, 
and so tender-hearted that she wept over a mouse 
caught in a trap and fed her dogs with roasted flesh, 
milk and bread made of the finest flour. She had a 
long and well-proportioned nose, green eyes, a small 
mouth and a remarkable forehead. The goodwife of 
Bath, with her bold red face, her loud laugh and her 
remedies for love, was a very different personage. She 
wore sharp spurs on her feet, and, besides company in 
her youth, had had five husbands. But what strikes 
you is the distinctiveness of all the characters ; each 
has a strong personality. The good parson, the 
physician whose "study was but little on the Bible," 
the brown-hued sailor, the merry friar, the fat monk, 
the gentle pardoner, the choleric reeve and the brave 
knight stand out in the company as never to be for- 
gotten, as people whom we seem to have ourselves 



222 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

known and spoken to — old friends, indeed, as familiar, 
every one of them, as Sir John Falstaff, Samuel Pick- 
wick, Esq., and the meddlesome old gentleman of St. 
Rowan's Well. 

There is in Chaucer an absence of introspection and 
subjectivity, so painful in many poets and so popular 
with many people. It may seem a small thing for a man 
to look within or without — within, upon his own self, 
his thoughts, emotions, powers, sins, virtues, and so- 
forth ; or without, upon the world of men and nature 
with its multiform life ; but the result is great. Perhaps 
the most unhealthful tendency of certain religious types 
is this constant morbid looking within, dissecting and 
testing feelings, analyzing conceptions of truth and mo- 
tives of vice and virtue; it is popular, but is neither 
soul-strengthening nor soul-developing. Its root is sel- 
fishness. As if self were the all-important thing in the 
universe, the most wonderful of God's creations and the 
object of his exclusive care ! Under the plea of being 
spiritual and having adroitly fastened the epithet " mor- 
al " — which is supposed to imply awful and intelligent 
depravity — upon its opponent, it spends its time in tak- 
ing care of dear self both for time and for eternity. As 
far as the world is concerned, it is not worth a thought, 
and may go on to ruin and to death. When you meet 
with one having this tendency, if you are fortunate 
enough in having a soul otherwise constituted, you feel 
that there is a great gulf between you. There is no 
touch, no affinity. You have no common ground of in- 
terest. To the one, self is but as a plumed seed drifting 
hither and thither on the autumn winds. Hence you 
read many writers, and you lay aside their books as 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 223 

being good, indeed, but not exactly what you want ; you 
cannot get into them. But Chaucer is not of this kind. 
You read his lines, and you are at once face to face with 
things that are to you real and living. 

Take his patriotism. Chaucer lays the framework of 
his Canterbury Tales in the country of his birth and his 
love, and in doing so he makes his framework thoroughly 
English. It is true Boccaccio had done the same with 
his tales : they are in themselves Italian and set in an 
Italian background ; but Boccaccio's background is re- 
pulsive to an English mind. Florence is suffering from 
a plague of which the author gives a most powerful and 
ghastly description, and while the plague is devastating 
the city, filling its homes with bitterest sorrow and its 
streets with neglected dead, the Florentines are away in 
a country villa amusing themselves with the recital of 
tales, of the morality of which the least said the better. 
Of course Boccaccio's object was artistic, and he has 
made the contrast decided and terrible ; but I venture 
to say that no English mind can endure a contrast so 
great and so awful. It is like dancing on the graves of 
the dead — like minstrelsy in the house of mourning. 
There is a heartlessness in the whole work : its teaching 
is heartless ; the best, perhaps the only redeeming, story 
in the collection — that of Griselda — is a piece of heart- 
lessness impossible except, perchance, in an Italian. 
Boccaccio was true to his natural instincts and to his 
age ; so was Chaucer, and, thank God ! England is not 
Italy. Our great poet has no black canvas on which to 
set his creations, no harrowing contrasts wherewith to 
produce his effects. Instead of a plague-stricken city, 
it is a pilgrimage of happy, light-hearted English people 
15 



2?4 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

along a highway in the bright springtime through the 
sweet Kentish land to the shrine of England's national 
saint, Thomas a Becket. Twenty-nine men and women 
met at the Tabard Inn, in Southwark, and agreed to 
travel together to Canterbury and to beguile the journey 
with the recital of tales of adventure or legend. It may 
seem odd to us of the nineteenth century that such mer- 
rymaking should associate itself with a religious under- 
taking, but English people had not then heard, and they 
have not learned yet, that religion is not to enter into 
everything, and that in everything, even common things 
such as eating and drinking, there is not a religious ele- 
ment. They saw no incongruity between a gay journey 
and devotion to St. Thomas of Canterbury; joy and 
piety were both gifts of God. And note that devotion 
to St. Thomas. Of course most of us have been taught 
that he was a bad man, a proud, arrogant abomination — 
not one word of which is true — but we must remember 
that immediately after his death and for three centuries 
he was England's popular saint. The people thronged 
to his shrine. The cathedral of Canterbury was en- 
riched by the oblations of the thousands who bowed 
the knee there. Churches were dedicated to him, not 
only in England, but even in Scotland and in distant 
Iceland. He was the beloved martyr of the Church of 
England — beloved in his own age and in succeeding 
ages, till at last there arose a generation that loved the 
patrimony of St. Thomas better than it loved his mem- 
ory and desired rather his gold than his blessing. Since 
then Thomas a Becket has been esteemed the vilest of 
the vile, and the ten generations of Englishmen that 
honored him have been considered the foolishest of the 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 225 

foolish and the blindest of the blind. But Chaucer did 
not foresee these latter days, and his faith in the national 
saint was strong and his devotion great. He has little 
sympathy with those who seek for foreign shrines ; the 
" holy blisful martir " of Canterbury was enough for 
him — a spice of contempt for everything un-English so 
characteristic of our forefathers. 

Yonder rises the cathedral high above the city around 
it, grander than when the pilgrims beheld it five hundred 
years ago. A feeling of laudable pride moves the soul — a 
moment in which one thanks God that one is a member 
of the Church which has its earthly centre in a structure 
so magnificent and so hallowed. The traveller enters the 
city through the west gate, built by Archbishop Simon 
of Sudbury, and the only city gate remaining. Hence 
he passes through St. Peter's street into High street, on 
the left-hand side of which he will find the narrow way 
called Mercery lane, down which the pilgrims went to 
the cathedral. Here they bought relics and tokens of 
St. Thomas, and some of the wealthier among them 
found hospitality at the Chequers Inn, at the corner of 
High street. In the present heavy, antique building 
some parts of the ancient hostelry remain, but, alas ! in- 
stead of silvern and leaden images of the holy martyr, 
guide-books and baby-linen are now the staple articles 
of merchandise. There are in this day no sounds of 
joyous revelry, no busy throng of worshippers from all 
parts of Christendom, no signs that this was once the 
liveliest part of Canterbury ; all is quiet, sleepy, dull — 
pleasantly and attractively so. Walk leisurely through 
the narrow lane with its old overhanging houses on both 
sides, and think of the days when thronging multitudes 



226 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

frequented the shrine of England's greatest saint. There, 
at the end, is the gate, erected in the reign of Henry 
VIII., leading into the precincts. The cathedral appears 
in all its massive splendor — a glorious pile the vastness 
of which can best be realized by walking around it be- 
fore seeing the inside. The more one looks, the greater 
and more wonderful the building becomes. It grows as 
the minutes pass by. Gradually the fact possesses the 
mind that in bygone ages churches were built, not for 
convenience only, not merely for shelter against wind 
and rain, but that they might teach great lessons and 
hand on from generation to generation rich and prof- 
itable associations. 

Before I speak further of this sacred edifice suffer me 
to prepare the way by imparting somewhat of the spirit 
which loves to linger amongst the glories of the past, 
and to see in architecture and in symbolism lessons of 
deepest interest and greatest value. 

No one contends that buildings are essential to Chris- 
tianity. The early Christians had none; their system 
made no provision for material temples. God was 
everywhere, and he could be worshipped everywhere 
— as well on the hillside, in the desert or by the ocean- 
shore as within the deftly-covered walls and beneath the 
ceiling of cedar in Jerusalem. They worshipped in 
secret, in the catacombs, the caves of the earth, the 
wilds of the forest and the little upper chamber. The 
missionary who preached the gospel in the open air 
presented the truth to his hearers as purely and as 
truly as did they who spoke in the basilicas of Chris- 
tian Rome. The twining branches of the woodland 
trees or the blue vaulted sky itself gave him a roof as 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 22J 

grand for the nonce as he could wish whose mind was 
full of weighty truths and whose soul burned with 
celestial fire. Upon a mound of earth or on a rough- 
hewn stone he placed the symbol of salvation, and as 
he pointed men to that and told them of Him who had 
died thereon hard hearts were softened and proud knees 
bent in penitence upon the green sward or on the dusty 
ground. Many a soul-stirring sermon was preached 
and many an impressive service held in Nature's own 
grand sanctuary long before cathedral was seen in the 
land. Even in our own day an open-air service is not 
without its charm and power, while in cottage-rooms, 
on board ships, in factories and plain little chapels, 
Christianity still retains its converting, ennobling and 
beautifying strength. You will find the begrimed 
miner come from the gathering of two or three wor- 
shippers in a corner of the dark mine a better and a 
happier man; you will feel the divine afflatus in the 
little company who by the riverside in the summer 
evening have sought to speak one to another of the 
mysteries and the love of God. 

But, for all that, a building in which the graces and 
the symbolic truths of architecture are displayed can- 
not fail to produce a beneficial effect upon the soul and 
to impart a fuller and a sublimer conception of Chris- 
tianity. It was in the nature of things that with pros- 
perity and influence changes should come. Art could 
not leave untouched the most beautiful conception ever 
given to man. So soon as Christianity drew to itself 
the culture and the wealth of Greece and of Rome, so 
soon the bridal-dress was placed upon the Bride of 
Christ. Intellect, imagination and genius went to the 



228 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

enrichment of the religion of Jesus ; art, with the skill 
of a heavenly enchantress, helped to bring out its beau- 
ty and to express its thought. One cannot worship 
within a minster where the devout and loving imagina- 
tion has wrought its mystic poem and not be moved. 
There is a something which steals upon the soul and 
fills it with reverence. The very walls seem to speak ; 
the many-colored windows and the lines of stately 
shafts suggest thoughts of hallowed meaning. Fancy 
fills the mighty solitude with spirits from heaven's 
bright land, and their songs break upon the silence. 
The magnificence and the beauty bring one into un- 
earthly scenes and pour into the heart sweetness and 
satisfaction akin to that which angels have. Such a 
building is an expression of God : his glory rests upon 
it ; his presence dwells within it. 

These religious edifices — the very embodiment of 
symbolism — are not only marvels in themselves, but 
also wonders of the age in which they were built. 
How they were conceived and constructed is a mys- 
tery. Our forefathers were rough, uncouth and coarse ; 
they were ignorant and superstitious. Their towns and 
their villages were the haunts of misery and of distress. 
In the narrow undrained streets pestilence lurked ; in the 
wretched cottages discomfort reigned. Yet in that past 
of poverty and rudeness and in those scenes of filthiness 
and want arose these beautiful structures, grander than 
Egyptian, Grecian or Roman temple, more artistic than 
aught we of the nineteenth century can devise. Noth- 
ing was left undone, no cost or labor was spared, that 
was calculated to move the spirit of devotion or to show 
honor to God. Earth had nothing too valuable for the 



THE ^PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 2 29 

purpose. Princes and barons gave of the abundance of 
their wealth ; yeomen and serfs contributed according to 
their substance. Nor was it the mere love of display 
that led to this magnificence; on the contrary, in a 
rich symbolism they sought to perpetuate and to man- 
ifest their ideal of religion. Everything had a meaning 
and a purpose ; everything was sacred and eternal. If 
on the outside walls of the church hideous figures were 
carved to denote the evil spirits fleeing from the abode 
of God's presence, inside the sweetest grace in pillar, 
arch and tracery suggested the beauty and the majesty 
of God's love and mercy to man. The ground-plan of 
the building was that of a cross, reminding man of the 
mystery of redemption, and oftentimes with a deflec- 
tion in the lines of the walls at the east end, to denote 
the drooping head of the Saviour in his last moments. 
The spire pointing ever to the sky told of the unity of 
the faith and of the appealing prayer and constancy of 
the worshippers, while the bird of warning upon its top 
recalled the Master's solemn charge to his people. The 
nave by name and by form spoke of the " ark of Christ's 
Church ;" the aisles, of the wings or the sails of the 
same. None but men possessed of a high conception 
of Christianity could have devised such lessons or pro- 
duced such buildings. They must have realized some- 
thing of the beauty of holiness, of the majesty of God, 
of the awfulness of eternity and of the sweetness of par- 
adise when they sought to express those truths in the 
rough stone and the plastic clay. 

And the effect of such sanctuaries upon them must 
have been great. When they knelt within the nave or 
walked along the aisles, they must have risen to heights 



230 THE HEART OF MBRRIE ENGLAND. 

of devotion they could not have reached in their own 
miserable homes. They must have felt that God was 
very near them ; that here the angels brought comfort- 
ing messages from the far-off land to the weary and the 
heavy laden; that within these consecrated walls the 
Lord Jesus was present for evermore. The light which 
streamed through the pictured windows came to them 
from no earthly sun, but from the throne whereon sat 
the Everlasting Glory, its tinted hues contrasting the 
beauty of grace with the coldness of nature. The 
faces which looked down from lofty clerestory were 
no figures cut in stones, but the spirits of the holy ones 
who from the highest heaven look back to the beloved 
friends of earth ; those upon the windows, of angel- 
minstrels, of the King's messengers. The imagination, 
subdued and taught by the earthly temple, read therein 
the evangelical lessons of Christ. There was cast from 
the chancel-screen upon the nave the shadow of the cross 
beneath which all must pass who would enter the holy 
place. There were the seats around the altar, recalling 
the vision of the exile of Patmos. The orient rays rest- 
ing upon the sacred place where in hallowed sacrament 
lay the body of the Lord spoke of the rainbow-circled 
throne where he sits crowned above all the kings of the 
earth. And, while the thoughtful soul was thus exalted 
to the higher world, there came the recollection that be- 
neath this magnificence and glory was the silent crypt 
into which the flesh must enter, but from which the 
God of power shall bring back his own. These things, 
wrought so wonderfully by art, could not fail to touch 
even the man whose brain had devised and whose hand 
had executed. They educated and made nobler and 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 23 1 

better the mind, and taught the world that " the King's 
daughter is all-glorious within; her clothing is of 
wrought gold." 

The devout Christian of the present day will not 
think that buildings of this sublime character are the 
webs which superstition weaves around the soul and 
which time hardens into fetters of iron, but he will see 
in them signs of mystic meaning, the fosterers of devo- 
tion, the interpreters of doctrine, the foreshadowings of 
heaven. They have served to mould his and his fathers' 
religion. They have aided his imagination and strength- 
ened his affection. They have taught him that essential 
virtue of all religion, reverence. They have given him 
suggestions which have helped him heavenward and led 
him farther into the mysteries of God. The triumphs 
of Christian architecture, the grace and the charm which 
adorn the outer temple, must at least speak to him of 
that integrity of purpose and that symmetry of charac- 
ter which should beautify the heart wherein the Holy 
Ghost is pleased to dwell. 

The same magnificence and symbolism that adorned 
the buildings extended themselves to the services. 
Doubtless the people loved ornate display, but there 
was a far deeper feeling than that. They may have 
gazed with wonder and with fear upon the mystic sanc- 
tuary where, amid the clouds of incense, white-robed 
choir and blaze of candles, the priest, arrayed in gor- 
geous vestments, consecrated the sacred Host, but they 
were in hearty sympathy and doubted nothing. They 
bowed with deepest reverence as the procession of priests 
and monks and singers, bearing cross and banner, holy 
relic or mysterious sacrament, passed by, reminding 



232 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

them of man's pilgrimage through this world. The 
organ sent its music echoing through the aisles, now in 
subdued strains of hushed supplication, now in thunder- 
ing peals of glad praise, and with hallowed chant and 
well-sung anthem moved and softened the roughest 
nature and made the weary heart long to sing its 
song and mingle its voice with the great multitude 
above. Nor were these services rare things : they 
came daily, and many times a day. The churches were 
ever open, the lamp before the altar was ever burning. 
At no time, day or night, was silent the voice of prayer 
for the Church's safety, the nation's welfare, the pres- 
ervation of travellers, the conversion of the heathen 
or the everlasting rest of the departed. In the monas- 
teries the twenty-four hours were one round of devotion. 
Lauds, prime, tierce, sext, nones and compline were sung 
in every religious house in the land. At daybreak ma- 
tins, at sunset evensong, brought rough hind and belted 
knight, rustic maiden and high-born lady, to their beads 
and their meditation. Ever and anon there broke upon 
the air the sweet melody of the murmuring chimes, tell- 
ing of joy and gladness, or perchance the heavy, sad tone 
of the passing-bell, speaking of mortality and of the duty 
to pray for the dying. And even now, in these days of 
hurry and faithlessness, a sweet restfulness and a gentle 
awe steal upon us when, with the door closed upon the 
outer world, we stand within the ancient sanctuary. A 
holy peace falls upon the soul, the Divine Presence is 
felt, the knee bends and the heart in joyous emotion 
pours itself out to Him whom we may have sought in 
the world in fields and in gardens, but have found only 
in his temple. 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 2$$ 

Perhaps the highest inspiration which an edifice full 
of beauty and luxuriant in symbolic art can give is to be 
had in the calm, moonlit eventide. As the pale beams 
fall upon its walls, shading the outline of tower, pinna- 
cle, nave and chancel and dimly realizing the tracery of 
the windows, the carved gargoyles and the arched door- 
way, the imagination sits upon Fancy's throne and be- 
gins its happy revellings. There are suggestions that 
the soul loves to encourage, thoughts that come to one 
like dreamy music in the gloaming. The silence of the 
place reminds one of the mysterious stillness into which 
all things living must enter. Not now, as in earlier hours, 
does the sound of chanting voices fall upon the ear like 
the roll of wave-floods on the beach ; no brightness 
flows in streams of liquid beauty through the antique 
windows ; no sign is there of the great world, so noisy 
in its bustle, so troubled in its life. There comes no 
melody of murmuring chimes, telling of joy and glad- 
ness, and no sad tone of passing-bell, speaking of mor- 
tality and of the duty to pray for the dying. The scene 
is impressively unearthly. In the deep shadows min- 
gling with the soft light you see the mysteries which are 
ever and anon thrown across the gospel-page — mysteries 
which we cannot fathom, and would not if we could. 
As you turn away you realize the grace and the power 
of the system which demands such a tribute of beauty, 
you gain an insight into the spirit of symbolism, and 
more than ever the fact of religion and the ideal of 
Christianity impress themselves upon you. 

Nor are the associations of Christian buildings less 
calculated to deepen and to strengthen the religious 
spirit. The comparative changelessness of the building 



234 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

helps to this end. While things around are passing 
away, while generation follows generation and the sea- 
sons run their courses, these sacred walls remind us of 
the permanence and the stability of religion. Sunday 
after Sunday, year after year, the eye rests upon the 
same hallowed surroundings and the beating heart is 
hushed in the same solemn stillness. Here worshipped 
others of our race — men and women who have long 
since passed into the Eternal Presence. Here hymn was 
sung and prayer offered long, long ago, as to-day. Here, 
now as then, the echoes of the gospel die amid the 
sweeping arches and within the dark bosom of the 
groined roof. It is the same as ever. And in olden 
time, when the dead were laid to rest, sometimes within 
the consecrated building, sometimes in the yard around 
it, and sculptured monuments and jewelled shrines com- 
memorated departed worth and grandeur, there was that 
which brought home very closely the fact of mortality 
and the doctrine of the communion of saints. They who 
lay in the fast-closed vaults or in the green-clad graves 
were the links which bound not only the present to the 
past, but also earth to heaven. The rudest spirit was 
hushed when in a place hallowed by associations such 
as these; the most irreverent could not but bow the 
head when walking along aisles which once had been 
trodden by those whose ashes were mouldering beneath 
the lettered pavement. Nor could the thoughtful man 
think of the time when he would be borne within the 
temple, or look upon the spot where he would be laid to 
rest, without tender emotion — emotion which could be 
stilled only when the eye fell upon some object which 
taught that Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life. 



THE PILGRIMAGE TO CANTERBURY. 235 

It is impossible to wander in such an Eden of pleas- 
ant delights as I have sought to suggest here in the very 
shadow of Canterbury without thinking of the times in 
which lived the men who wrought these structures. It 
was not the building only, but everything else, that 
marked the reality of those ages of faith and devotion. 
Maxims such as these were enjoined upon all Christian 
men : " Arise early, serve God devoutly and the world 
busily ; do thy work wisely, give thine alms secretly, 
and go by the way sadly." Letters of those days are 
interesting for the deep reverential spirit of their greet- 
ing — perhaps too often formal, but still a quaint, sweet 
form. The knight was charged by the dignity of his 
order to uphold the rights of maidens and of widows, 
truly to hold his promise to his friend and his foe, to 
honor his father and his mother, to do no harm to the 
poor, but to be merciful and to hold with the sacrifice 
of the great God of heaven. Nor were the clergy ig- 
norant either of necessary doctrinal truth or of their 
duty to the people. They taught the people at least the 
stories and general truths of Scripture, and undoubtedly 
sought, according to the light they had, the good of the 
Church and the nation. In a period strongly marked 
by caste they moved between the court and the cabin, 
from the mansion of the peer to the mud hut of the 
peasant, and endeavored to soften the pride of the one 
and to better the hard lot of the other, and to bind all 
together in a true Christian brotherhood. The monks, 
too, were far from deserving that wholesale condemna- 
tion which later times passed upon them. Early mem- 
bers of their orders had gone out into the wilderness and 
the barren places, far away from the haunts of men, 



236 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

where they might worship God in peace and live in 
solitude. The richest and the most beautiful of modern 
abbey-lands had originally been desolate, uninhabited 
and worthless. In some deep sequestered glen, the 
home of the wild boar, the bittern and the crane, or be- 
side the waters of some almost unknown stream, or by 
the shore of the great, lonely ocean itself, they built their 
house and their sanctuary, and lived roughly and rudely 
by the labors of their hands. Here they gradually gath- 
ered around them a village of artisans and laborers, who 
depended upon them for support and protection. The 
most liberal hospitality was given to all who needed it. 
The Fathers cared for the poor and the sick, administered 
justice and kept good order on their estates, and sup- 
plied the neighboring villages with the ministrations of 
religion. 



CHAPTER X. 

In tlje (Batljeirral. 

" I lift mine eyes, and all the windows blaze 
With forms of saints and holy men who died, 
Here martyred and hereafter glorified." 

We enter the sacred edifice by the south-western door 
— a porch built by Thomas Chillenden, prior at the be- 
ginning of the fifteenth century, and covered with niches 
in which are placed famous characters connected with 
the history of Canterbury. A scene of splendor bursts 
upon the vision — a prelude, as it were, to other scenes 
of greater glory and of more soul-stirring emotion. 
The view up the nave toward the east is enhanced by 
the cleanness of pillars, roof and walls. The white stone 
has not been darkened by smoke or by age, though four 
centuries have passed since Archbishop Chicheley fin- 
ished the work. The lofty pillars, massive and exact, 
appear in their long avenue as giant trees of the forest, 
supporting arches of noble sweep, the triforium and 
clerestory of delicate detail and the roof which bewilders 
with its distance. Some have thought that the steps 
leading up into the choir detract from the effect ; it is 
only for a moment. The design of the building as a 
whole dawns upon the mind, the magnitude of the nave 
and aisles becomes every moment more impressive ; and 
if disappointment there were, it speedily passes away in 

237 



238 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

wondering surprise at the daring splendor of the art and 
the completeness of the work. If from the choir beyond 
the great stone screen the melody of pealing organ or 
chanting boys steals echoing down the church, emotions 
are awakened which subdue the soul and suggest ex- 
alted things. Up the steps we pass, under the central 
tower — a beautiful structure open to the top and worthy 
of much attention. In front is the entrance to the choir, 
to the left the transept in which St. Thomas of Can- 
terbury was murdered, and to the right the south-west 
transept, leading out of which is St. Michael's or the 
Warriors' Chapel. In this chapel, among other tombs, 
is one, half in and half out of the church, said to con- 
tain the body of Archbishop Langton. As a proof of 
the high esteem with which the people regarded the 
hero of the Magna Carta, when this part of the building 
was erected and the line of the wall fell exactly upon 
his grave in the cemetery the architect built over it an 
arch rather than disturb remains so revered. It is doubt- 
ful, however, whether the archbishop was buried here at 
all. A story runs that when young he and a village 
maiden were lovers, but for some cause or other they 
were separated ; he became a churchman, she a nun. In 
time he reached the rank of archbishop, and she that of 
abbess. Then they met again, and continued in intimate 
friendship till they died, when they were buried side by 
side in a country churchyard a few miles away. Whether 
this be legend or no, certain it is that her tomb has been 
identified and beside her lies a man. Somehow or other, 
this story of love draws us closer to the great cardinal 
than even that which he did at Runnymede. In this 
same chapel is a monument of marble and alabaster, 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 239 

very fine to look upon, to the memory of Lady Marga- 
ret Holland and her two husbands. She lies in full- 
length effigy between her two lords — one, the earl of 
Somerset, who died 1410; the other, the duke of Clar- 
ence, who died 1420. She died in 1440. At their feet, 
as usual, animals are sculptured. These generally in- 
dicate the characteristic of the deceased ; e. g., an eagle, 
courage ; a hound, fleetness ; and a dog, fidelity. 

The choir is contained between the pillars dividing it 
from its aisles on either side ; here, as in the holy place, 
service is daily held. Another flight of steps leads up 
into the presbytery ; another, to the altar rails ; and still 
another, to the jasper pavement on which stands the 
high altar. Several tombs of archbishops are on both 
sides of the presbyteiy ; that to Archbishop Chicheley, 
on the north side, is too remarkable to be passed by. 
Beneath a rich canopy of carved stone-work, supported 
by exquisitely sculptured pillars, in the niches of which 
are small elegant statues of white marble, rests the body 
of the prelate who built the nave. The monument was 
erected in his lifetime, and he left a large endowment to 
All Souls' College at Oxford to keep it in repair. On 
an upper, altar-shaped slab he lies in effigy, clothed in 
his splendid pontifical robes, so well done as to seem 
almost living. Angels support his head, and at his feet 
are two monks holding open books. Underneath, on an- 
other slab, lies the effigy of a skeleton partly shrouded, 
and also so well done as to appear like actual death. 
The contrast is startling — the archbishop in his glory, 
and the archbishop in his shame. 

We pass back again to the steps under the tower and 
turn to the north-west transept — the place of the martyr- 

16 



240 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

dom. It has been changed since that dark December 
evening, seven hundred years ago, when was shed the 
blood which made it sacred for ever. Against the north 
walls are the tombs of Archbishops Warham and Peck- 
ham; the latter, of bog-oak, is in good preservation, 
though six hundred years old. To the east is the 
Dean's Chapel, formerly called the Lady Chapel, in 
which are several monuments to the deans and some 
books on which the titles have been placed, not on the 
backs, but on the edges of the opening leaves. These, 
however, are as nothing beside the interest of the mar- 
tyrdom itself. The story is too well known to need 
repeating. Suffice it is to say that the memory of the 
man who dared to die for rights which he deemed sa- 
cred was precious in the hearts of Englishmen from the 
day his blood was poured out on the cold stones till the 
day when a king coveted the treasures which the ages 
had heaped upon his shrine. Nor has the spirit of ad- 
miration and of justice so passed away that none are 
left to think of him with honor, and even with love. 
He fell pierced with many wounds. In the darkening 
twilight the murderers escaped; and when the news 
spread through the city, the townspeople ran to the 
cathedral. The glimmering torches showed them the 
body of the archbishop lying in his gore before the 
altar. They began to weep, and, while some kissed his 
hands and his feet, others dipped linen in the blood with 
which the pavement was covered. Ere long the trem- 
bling monks buried the body in the crypt. The royal 
proclamation to the contrary was useless : Becket was 
a martyr and a saint from that very night. If Henry 
feared him when living, he had much more cause to 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 2\\ 

fear him when dead. The thunderstorm which burst 
upon the city as the murderers fled was at once the 
sign of Heaven's anger and the awakening of an en- 
thusiasm which lived for centuries. Miracles were 
wrought at the tomb; pilgrimages became popular. 
An altar was erected upon the spot of the martyrdom, 
and here the greatest of the Plantagenet kings married 
Queen Margaret. Edward IV. gave the great window 
of the transept, wondrous in workmanship, wherein 
were seven glorious appearances of the Blessed Vir- 
gin and St. Thomas himself fully robed and mitred. 
This was mostly destroyed by a Puritan iconoclast. 

From the martyrdom we proceed along the north 
aisle of the choir, past the north-east transept and the 
chapel of St. Andrew, beyond which is the treasury, up 
the steps by which the pilgrims went, into the chapel of 
the Holy Trinity. This is immediately beyond the high 
altar, and here, in the highest and most beautiful part 
of the cathedral, was the shrine of St. Thomas. The tile 
pavement against the west screen was given by the Cru- 
saders ; it remains, but every vestige of the shrine is re- 
moved. An evidence of the multitudes who visited it 
is in the worn stones : the bare knees of pilgrims hol- 
lowed out a semicircle before the saint. Close by is 
the tomb of the Black Prince, and hanging aloft are the 
helmet, the coat and the gauntlets which he wore at the 
battle of Crecy, half a millennium ago, his popularity 
attested in his being buried near the most sacred spot in 
England. Henry IV. with his queen, Joan of Navarre, is 
also buried there. Beyond this chapel is the corona, the 
most eastern part of the cathedral. Here is the plain 
tomb of Cardinal Pole, the last English archbishop who 



242 THE HEART OF ME RE IE ENGLAND. 

recognized the papal supremacy. In the ancient black 
marble chair have been enthroned the rulers of Eng- 
land's primatial see, the patriarchs of English Christen- 
dom. Thoughts press fast upon one another in such a 
place, but even as the sunlight outshines the stars the sur- 
rounding vision blots them out. Look down the mighty 
and magnificent edifice raised to the glory of almighty 
God and through long centuries a centre of the nation's 
life. No description can convey the impression of that 
vista; no picture or poem can impart the fact of its 
splendor. The vastness of the structure and the beauty 
of the conception overawe the mind. Through the 
windows, marvellous in tracery and rich in colored 
glass, falls the soft and tinted light, its warmth and love- 
liness of hue suggesting the contrast between the outer 
and the inner radiance, between the realm of grace and 
the region of nature. The long lines of sculptured shafts 
rise with noble dignity and impressive stateliness to sup- 
port the lofty and majestic arches. The eye passes down 
through the Trinity Chapel, where once thousands and 
tens of thousands knelt before the hallowed shrine of 
the martyr; on beyond the high altar and the presby- 
tery into the choir, where holy service is chanted at the 
rising and the setting of every sun ; and farther on, be- 
yond the richly-finished screen, into the great and 
glorious nave — a very forest of noblest architectural 
splendor, where like tall and mighty trees set in a royal 
avenue of wide-arching beauty pillar after pillar rises 
and sends aloft its moulded branches into the groined 
and distant roof, glory upon glory, strength upon 
strength, as though the builders, filled with divinest 
power, sought to outdo the work of Nature, and to 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 243 

show to the Lord of all that human hearts and human 
hands could do that which the rocks and the forests, the 
sun and the frost, the shifting winds and the flowing 
waters, could not do. In the mellowed radiance fading 
in the misty distance, and in the holy awfulness of the 
voice of God speaking through man in the lines of the 
poem wrought in stone, the mysterious sweetness of the 
Divine Presence makes itself felt. Heaven may have 
that which is grander, more suggestive, richer in form 
and color and more truly an expression of all that the 
mind conceives to be beautiful and sublime, but earth has 
not. The King's daughter is all-glorious within, and 
the great Anglican communion wants no grander centre, 
no nobler mother-church. 

The rich, delicate carving, the simplicity and dignity, 
the costliness and rareness of material, the most thought- 
ful, consummate poetic and religious art, show that the 
best of all has been given to the Lord of glory. But 
much of what was once here has been taken away. 
The wealth of gold and of precious stones that once 
adorned the sanctuary and the shrine was stolen to re- 
plenish the exchequer of Henry VIII. Even the jewels 
about the head of the Black Prince were dug out and 
appropriated. Never were the desires for the purity of 
the faith and the wealth of the Church more curiously 
blended than in that age, and no one seems able to say 
which was greater — the hatred of the men of those 
times for the clergy or their love for the lands of the 
Church. Beautiful as Canterbury Cathedral is, there 
comes upon one the feeling that it has been stripped of 
its richest glories and is not what it was in the first days 
of the sixteenth century. 



244 THE HEART OF MERKIE ENGLAND. 

There is little difficulty, standing here in Becket's 
Crown, in repeopling the place with the men of earlier 
days. The picture of pilgrims walking barefoot or 
crawling on naked knee up the stone steps in the north 
aisle to the shrine of St. Thomas soon becomes vivid. 
They brought their offerings and uttered their prayers to 
him who they hoped would intercede for them before the 
throne of God. Sometimes a nobler penitent came — a 
prince with a rich retinue and with costly gifts. Kings 
and emperors worshipped there, people from all parts of 
England, and even from the lands beyond the seas. As 
an illustration of the popularity of this pilgrimage, we 
may note that in the fifteen days' jubilee of 1420 no less 
than a hundred thousand persons knelt before the glori- 
ous shrine of St. Thomas, and the offerings in money 
made that year amounted to nearly six hundred pounds 
— a sum probably equal to about eighteen thousand 
pounds at this present day. Miracles were wrought 
there, and revelations made. Some of the windows, 
dating from the thirteenth century, remain, and are un- 
rivalled both for delicacy and harmony of color and for 
accurate execution of design. 

The central thought of Canterbury is undoubtedly 
the martyr, and yet the building is full of the associa- 
tions of other men who helped to make England what 
she is and whose names are enrolled in the annals of her 
fame. They looked upon these very walls and trod these 
very stones. Many of the archbishops are buried here, 
but only one king, and he has a chantry on the north 
side of the Trinity Chapel. 

We wander down the south steps and look into the 
chapel of St. Anselm, in the entrance of which is the 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 245 

tomb of Archbishop Mepham, and from which a pleasing 
glimpse of the choir presents itself. Hence we find our 
way across the building to the entrance to the crypt, and 
on descending we first visit the Lady Chapel — St. Mary's 
of the Undercroft. This is a singularly attractive spot. 
It is directly under the high altar in the cathedral, and is 
divided off by stone screens of fine workmanship. It 
was once rich in jewels and in gold ; gold, Erasmus 
said, was the meanest thing about the place. Traces of 
the exquisite decorations remain. Figures, symbols and 
stars cover the vaulted roof. When lighted with lamps 
and tapers, the effect must have been great. Here ser- 
vice never ceased, day nor night. A curious shrine, 
down in the deep body of the church, symbolical of the 
affection with which men regarded her whom all gen- 
erations call blessed. Beyond this chapel is the place 
where Becket's body lay for the first fifty years after his 
martyrdom. Here is the spot where Henry did penance 
and submitted his back to the scourge of the monks. 
Not far off is the tomb of Archbishop Morton, who re- 
stored the chapel of Our Lady. In the work about this 
tomb is an illustration of the rebus-play of the old sculp- 
tors. There are figures of a hawk and of a tun, the former 
lighting upon the latter. The arch is also adorned with 
roses, each surmounted with a crown. Of these the last 
one is cramped and imperfect, the artist evidently having 
tired of his work. In St. Gabriel's Chapel are some 
curious figures of animal-minstrels wrought around the 
capital of the central column — goats, etc., playing horns 
and flutes. The mural paintings are not obliterated ; fig- 
ures of angels and of saints are plainly visible. In the 
middle, over where the altar formerly stood, is a repre- 



246 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

sentation of Christ, singular in the right hand pointing 
downward. The blue-and-gold illuminations in the 
vaulting are also visible. This chapel was the work of 
a genius, and is not excelled by other work of the time, 
either in the cathedral or elsewhere. Another interest- 
ing feature of the crypt is the little French church, the 
home of refugees nestling under the protection of the 
great cathedral. Queen Elizabeth extended this hospi- 
tality, and from then to now the organization has held 
its own. It is not a part of the Anglican Church, but 
its pastor receives Anglican orders. 

Days could be spent in this wonderful cathedral with- 
out exhausting its treasures of art and of association. 
Happy are they whose duty lies within its sacred walls 
and whose life is spent in its calm, heavenly atmosphere. 
They who visit have for ever recollections to sweeten 
and brighten the after-days. As we pass out of the 
church into the cloisters the white-robed procession 
winds from the chapel of St. Andrew through the dark 
aisle into the choir, and ere we look for the last time 
upon the vision of beauty, the storied windows, the shafts 
crowned with the circlets of vine and acanthus leafage, 
the silent tombs, the vast spaces of nave and aisle, there 
come the voices of singing choristers, and in the mur- 
muring melody of evensong, sweeping in gentle waves 
of undulating sweetness, hope rises upon the wings of 
hallowed imagination and suggests the glories of the 
worship of the land which is very far off. 

The cloisters are full of architectural and heraldic in- 
terest. In the groined roof are the armorial bearings 
of benefactors of the church, and, though sadly muti- 
lated, some Romanesque arches, trefoil- headed arcades 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 247 

and ribbed vaulting indicate the former splendor of the 
monks' walk. Here the brethren spent some of their 
time in meditation, amusement and exercise, the bright 
green earth being restful to the eye and healthful for 
both body and soul. On the eastern side is the chap- 
ter- or sermon-house, a noble structure of several styles, 
from Early English to Perpendicular. Some traces of 
the former glory remain — the coloring and the enam- 
elled work in the canopies of the raised stalls at the 
east end. Around the hall are the stone seats on which 
the brethren sat during chapter, the abbot's or prior's 
throne being conspicuous for its higher elevation and 
its greater finish. Here the community met to consult 
about the affairs of the church and the monastery, for 
Canterbury was a Benedictine foundation. The young- 
est brother first gave his voice and vote, and so on, ac- 
cording to age, till the most ancient spoke, and then the 
prior uttered sentences and censures and penances and 
scourgings were imposed, the delinquent standing out 
in the open space to receive punishment, perhaps to 
turn his back to the whip of the penitentiary. Sermons 
and lectures were given from the pulpit in the centre ; 
no one then thought of using the church, so utterly 
unadapted for the purpose, for preaching. A light 
burned perpetually in this place, and the chapter met 
every morning. Sometimes a novice received the cowl 
or an officer was appointed ; perchance a brother that 
night deceased was carried in on his blue bed with a 
chalice on his breast, and then with solemn dirge and 
requiem taken away to his long home. At the close of 
the meeting a wooden tablet was struck, and in the dull 
sounds the brethren were reminded of man's painful life, 



248 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

his sad pilgrimage and his sure death. No longer, how- 
ever, are these things done. Times have changed ; the 
monks are gone. One of the most interesting events 
of the year is the " speech-day " of King's School. 
Then the beautiful building is filled with scholars and 
their friends, addresses are made and prizes presented, 
ladies, gowned masters and scarlet-robed doctors look 
with interest and admiration upon the happy faces be- 
fore them, and one wonders what the old monks would 
think were they in slow and silent procession to enter 
upon the scene. 

Near to the chapter-door is the way, through walls 
fourteen feet thick, into the slype. Here, when a broth- 
er lay dying, the hollow sound of the clapper called his 
fellows to his bedside in the infirmary. They watched 
beside him, prayed with him and for him ; the children 
of the almonry — sweet-voiced choristers — sang to him 
from the psalms of David ; and when he passed away, 
he was gently and lovingly carried to join the silent 
brotherhood in the green churchyard. 

We pass out of the dark entry, and find ourselves 
among buildings and remains of buildings which show 
the extent of this place in olden times. In the green 
court, on one side of which is the deanery, we linger to 
look upon some of the exquisite views of the cathedral. 
The quiet charm can only be suggested; neither pen 
nor pencil can do more. A few steps farther, and we 
are outside the sacred precincts. We wander around 
the wall — for the cathedral was enclosed and fortified — 
till we get back again to Mercery Lane ; then through 
High street we proceed eastward to other historical 
spots. 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 249 

Canterbury is full of interesting churches and other 
buildings ; two, however, are pre-eminent — St. Martin's 
church and St. Augustine's College. The former of 
these is in the extreme eastern part of the city ; the lat- 
ter, halfway between it and the cathedral. On the way 
out the highly-respectable and the highly-dull character 
of Canterbury becomes more than ever apparent. One 
of the oldest churches is St. Paul's, founded in the thir- 
teenth century, lately restored, and containing some in- 
teresting tablets. In the belfry is one to the memory of 
Sir Edward Master, once lord mayor of London, and in 
the inscription emphasis is laid upon the fact that he was 
the husband of one wife and by her the father of twenty 
children. Farther on is a long row of low-built houses 
called a hospital and founded by a John Smith in 1657. 
Farther still, leaving the great monastery on the left, is 
the little building which may in truth be called the cradle 
of all English Christianity. 

A simple, unostentatious structure is this St. Martin's, 
rich in age and in associations, but void of architectural 
beauty. There are genuine bits of Roman work in the 
walls, showing that the more modern Norman work was 
done only in the way of repairs and restoration. On the 
whole, it is the very building in which St. Augustine 
celebrated the services of God thirteen hundred years 
ago, and it was esteemed old then. There Christians 
worshipped in the days of the Roman occupancy of 
Britain, and, though the English pagans fiercely swept 
out of the land the older civilization and religion, there 
divine worship was destined to be offered again without 
interruption, even as at this time. 

The story of St. Augustine is as well known as it is 



250 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

ever fresh. When he and his monks passed up the way 
from Ebbsfleet to win the kingdom of Kent for their 
Lord, not only were they kindly received by Ethelbert, 
but in his queen, Bertha, they found a protector and in 
St. Martin's church a home. This was for a time the 
headquarters of the mission ; ere long both king and 
people were converted to the faith, and the land was 
given upon which was afterward built the abbey of St. 
Peter and St. Paul. In a once Christian church there 
the king of Kent worshipped the gods of the heathen ; 
this he changed into a church again, and St. Augustine 
consecrated and dedicated it to St. Pancras. When we 
go back to the city, we will look at the ruins of this first 
abiding-place of the founders of the Church of England. 
St. Martin's consists of a nave, a chancel and a tower. 
The entire length of the building is less than eighty feet, 
and the chancel is nearly a yard longer than the nave. 
The walls are about twenty-two inches thick, and are of 
stone, rubble and Roman bricks. The tower was built 
in the fourteenth century and is covered with ivy. In 
the choir floor appears an altar-slab about eight feet long 
and having the usual stigmata and crosses — one of the 
few stone altars which escaped utter destruction in the 
Reformation. It was, however, used as a monument, 
and is inlaid with memorial brasses. A Norman piscina 
in the south wall, possibly of Saxon date, wrought by 
itinerant masons from the Continent, is said to be the old- 
est in England, and there is an aumbry in the chancel of 
the fifteenth century. In the chancel is also shown a tomb 
said to contain the remains of Queen Bertha, but she was 
buried somewhere in or near the monastery. The font 
is one of the greatest objects of interest. Its age is un- 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 25 I 

known ; ancient tradition affirms that in it St. Augustine 
baptized King Ethelbert on Whitsunday, 597. In the 
western wall, north of the tower, is a squint through 
which penitents could see the high altar ; there are also 
near the altar traces of the priest's door and of the 
lepers' window. 

The contrast between this plain, tiny edifice and the 
grand and glorious cathedral is very great, even as the 
brown shrivelled seed to the full-blown splendor of the 
flower. This is really the mother-church of our race. 
Through the changes and the chances of thirteen cen- 
turies we look back to the day when within these walls 
was gathered the handful of men who were to lay the 
foundations of a religious community that should spread 
through all the world and become second to none of 
the churches of Christendom. Stand in the western 
porch, in the gateway of the ivy-clad tower, on the 
ground where once stood St. Augustine, Queen Bertha, 
and many another Christian of the distant ages, and 
look upon the exquisite and inspiriting landscape. That 
view is a type of the spiritual garden of the Lord, as re- 
freshing as it is picturesque and as full of glory as it is 
rich in living green and pleasant memories. Under the 
yew tree close by lie the remains of Dean Alford, a 
man of varied gifts, at once a theologian and a poet, a 
musician, a carver and a painter, a preacher and a writer 
— more than all else, a gentle and holy servant of God. 
The lich-gate is a fine piece of work. Near to it is a 
cross on the front of which is carved the name " Hew 
Whyte ;" on the back, " And Alys his wife." One passes 
away over sacred ground thankful for the mercy which 
has suffered one to see so holy a place. 



252 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

The abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul was famous as 
much for the extent and the magnificence of its buildings 
as for the constant quarrellings of its members with the 
community at the cathedral. Among other causes of 
contention was that over the remains of the deceased 
archbishop. The monks of Christ church wanted him 
living and dead; the canons of St. Peter claimed his 
body for their own. Therefore, whenever a prelate died, 
the dispute arose, till at last the former prevailed. How- 
ever, within the porch of the great church which in time 
was erected lies the dust of St. Augustine and his six 
immediate successors ; but whereabouts the porch was 
no one living knows. Some parts of the building re- 
main — the wall of the north aisle and some bases of 
columns, fragments of fallen arches and mounds. The 
old builders wrought well : a strong outer casing of good 
stone, then the interior filled with rubble, and finally 
molten cement, possibly near boiling, poured in. The 
result was a solid mass of unwearing masonry. To the 
east is the only remaining arch of St. Pancras church. 
Many parts of the monastery buildings are still standing 
— the tall towers, the beautiful gateway and some por- 
tions of the dining-hall and the chapel. The wealth and 
the position of the brotherhood were once great ; they 
entertained kings and prelates and feasted six thousand 
guests at a time. Changes came, and in the end of the 
fifteenth century they had scarcely bread to eat. 

Perhaps this was prophetical of the degradation to 
which the place itself was destined to fall. Henry VIII. 
appropriated it, converting the grounds into a deer-park 
and the buildings into a palace; Queen Elizabeth kept 
court here in 1573; Charles I. was married here, and 



IN THE CATHEDRAL. 2$$ 

Charles II. was here entertained on his passage at the 
Restoration. The abbey and its precincts of sixteen 
acres enclosed by a wall passed to various lay pos- 
sessors ; it was finally neglected, suffered to go to ruin, 
and the people of the neighborhood freely appropriated 
its materials for building-purposes. Less than half a 
century since, this place, sacred for its memories and 
famous for its work, was woefully desecrated by having 
within its courts a brewery, a skittle-alley and a public- 
house. Gamesters, pleasure-seekers, idlers and riff-raff, 
drunken and irreverent, wandered at will over ground 
and within walls rich in the memorials of saints and 
kings and for ages consecrated to religious purposes. 
In 1844 the premises were bought by an earnest and 
devout churchman, Sir Beresford Hope, and converted 
into a college for the training of a missionary clergy ; 
of the good which the noble institution has accom- 
plished the hundreds of missionaries scattered through- 
out the world testify. The men of St. Augustine are to 
be found in Canada, Australia, Africa, India, and else- 
where ; wherever found, they display a piety, an earnest- 
ness and a power unexcelled by any and worthy of their 
Alma Mater. Parts of the ancient buildings are utilized 
in the modern college; the same water-springs which 
supplied the old monks supply their successors. In the 
modern cloisters are painted on the wall the names of 
the graduates of the college and the dioceses to which 
they were sent ; to the names of those who have passed 
away are added the letters R. I. P. There is a chapel in 
which these latter names are also reverently inscribed, 
and an altar where probably commemorative services 
are held. In the college chapel everything denotes good 



254 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

churchmanship ; the altar is suitably furnished and ap- 
propriate vestments are used. In the hall under the 
library is the museum, in which is a fair collection of 
curiosities sent by the missionaries from their several 
fields of labor. Thus the beauty of holiness and the 
life of usefulness have come back again to the old mon- 
astery. There were difficulties in the way. It is said that 
when St. Augustine converted the heathen temple into 
the church of St. Pancras the devil was so annoyed at 
the change that he sought with all his might to overturn 
the building. He only succeeded in leaving the print 
of his talons in the walls of the south porch. It may 
have been the work of the ivy, but that is immaterial ; 
let the legend stand : the cross won. So in this later 
regeneration right prevailed over wrong and light over 
darkness. 

Our visit to Canterbury is at an end. Full of pleas- 
ant recollections, we take the train for London. In the 
same railway compartment with us are three or four boys 
of King's School on their way home for the holidays. 
What happy, jolly little fellows they are ! How politely 
they offer us the newspapers they have with them, and 
with what free, undisguised delight one of them shows 
us his prize book ! Their bright laugh rings in our ears, 
and somehow or other we forget the dark sculptured 
faces in the cathedral and see only the clear faces of 
these merry schoolboys. 



CHAPTER XI. 

" Here his first infant lays sweet Shakespeare sung ; 
Here his last accents faltered on his tongue." 

It was on a bright, warm August morning that I 
started in the carrier's stage for Stratford-on-Avon. The 
road is one of the best and pleasantest in England, pass- 
ing, as it does, through several villages and a country 
■fertile, well wooded and highly cultivated. By this way 
it is next to certain Shakespeare himself travelled, as 
people have done for centuries, to London. As in his 
day, so now, the noble spire of Tredington church is a 
landmark for many a long mile, and the Stour wanders 
between the willows and through the fields by the road- 
side. There was a pleasant look of old-time life in the 
cottages and inns, at the latter of which the coach stop- 
ped to receive messages and passengers, and where the 
trimly-dressed hostess, full of sunshiny smiles and well- 
satisfied authority, or the wide-awake hostler or boy-of- 
all-work, gave the " Good-morning !" and sought for cus- 
tomers. To some of the travellers it was evidently a 
thirsty day, and, as the temperance movement has not to 
any great extent affected this part of the world, huge 
potions of bright, foaming ale were consumed at every 
stopping-place. The driver was happy and obliging, 

17 255 



256 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

ready at all times to have a chat or to give information ; 
three or four of the passengers were merry, and enliv- 
ened the journey with odd rhymes, humorous stories 
and witty repartees. One old fellow, full of fun and 
beer, puzzled a boy who went riding awkwardly by on a 
horse by asking him " if he would not be safer riding 
inside." The lad stopped to scratch his head and to 
think. In the meadows the haymakers were busily at 
work; here and there the forge-fire gleamed out of the 
dark shop, and the anvil ceased to ring as the leathern- 
aproned smith, holding the hot horseshoe in his pincers, 
stopped to look at us ; the birds darted out of the hedges 
at the crack of the whip or the bark of the dog ; car- 
riages, horsemen and pedestrians passed us looking 
cheery and bright as the day itself; and, now out in the 
open road, now under the cool green shade of overhang- 
ing trees, we rolled over our ten miles, feeling that, after 
all, there were some pleasures connected with stage-trav- 
elling which railways cannot give. 

The sun was high toward noon when we entered the 
remarkably clean and pretty town on the Avon. What 
a delightful out-of-the-world place it is ! And what 
strangely-sweet emotions fill one's soul as one remem- 
bers that this quiet, contented burgh, with its beautiful 
surroundings, prosperous-looking people and antique 
spirit brooding over all, was once the home of him whose 
glory is the glory of humanity and whose thought per- 
meates the world ! Here he was born ; here he loved 
and lived ; here he died. Stratford is all Shakespeare, 
and the town appears calmly conscious of the fact. It 
may have an older history, running back, as it does, be- 
yond the days of the so-called Saxon Heptarchy, full of 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 2$? 

interest, and possibly of romance, but all else is forgot- 
ten in the one mighty thought of Shakespeare. Even 
as the sun at its rising dims the stars whose brilliancy 
made the night-sky splendid, so this man, full of most 
marvellous power, outshines all who lived before him. 
Doubtless the place always had attractions, but 

" Fairer seems the ancient borough, 
And its sunshine seems more fair, 
That he once has trod its pavement, 
That he once has breathed its air." 

Beyond the town and across the meadows, some 
twenty minutes' walk, is Shottery, the village-home of 
Ann Hathaway. There is no difficulty in recognizing 
the cottage, the pictures of it being very like. It is at 
the far side of the little village, its end to the lane-like 
road and its front largely hidden with honeysuckles and 
roses. It is of the dark timber framing filled up with 
bricks and plaster commonly looked upon as Eliza- 
bethan — or I might almost say Shakesperean — with 
deep gables and roof thatched with straw and dotted 
with moss and lichen. A gate opens into the garden, 
and a narrow pathway partly paved with irregular pieces 
of stone and brick and running up two or three uneven 
steps leads therefrom to the strange-looking old door. 
The clumsy wooden latches, lifted with a string, the end 
of which is put through a hole and hangs outside, are 
still there. Nor are the oak pegs with which the frame- 
work of the simple structure was fastened together cut 
off. The appearance of the place, unchanged as it is 
for the most part, gives a fair idea of the houses of the 
well-to-do villagers three centuries since. Odd and un- 



258 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

pretentious, it has, nevertheless, an air of homely com- 
fort about it— a simplicity and a restfulness in which 
suggestions of happy, uneventful country life come to 
the mind as tenderly and sweetly as the matin-chimes 
murmur in the still summer air. 

The old lady who lives there, a descendant of the 
Hathaways, was very genial and communicative in 
showing me around. The house inside is pretty much 
the same as of old — the ample and comfortable kitchen- 
room, with its chimney-place, in which are the old bacon 
cupboards, as it was when Willie Shakespeare courted 
sweet Mistress Ann. Here, possibly in this old chair 
or on that rude settle, he sat and told her the story of 
his love. These very walls, this antique panelled wain- 
scoting, these low darkened beams of the ceiling and 
these stones of the floor, could they but speak, would 
repeat the assurances and the vows of the ardent youth. 
With some such lines as these he wooed : 

»• Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng, 
With love's sweet notes to grace your song, 
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, 
Listen to mine Ann Hathaway. 
She hath a way to sing so clear 
Phoebus might wond'ring stop to hear; 
To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, 
And Nature charm, Ann hath a way, 

She hath a will, 

She hath a way, 
To breathe delight, Ann Hathaway. 

"When Envy's breath and ranc'rous tooth 
-Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, 
And merit to distress betray, 
To soothe the heart, Ann hath a way ; 



A T STRA TFORD- ON- A VON 259 

She hath a way to chase despair, 

To heal all grief, to cure all care, 

Turn foulest night to fairest day, 

Thou know'st, fond heart, Ann hath a way. 

She hath a will, 

She hath a way, 
To make grief bliss, Ann Hathaway." 



Some have held that the married life of these two was 
not happy, but the most reliable evidence goes the 
other way. Undoubtedly, Shakespeare found in Ann 
Hathaway a good and loving wife, and she found in 
him a true and noble-hearted husband. If in his will 
he left her only his second-best bed, it was probably be- 
cause ample provision had been otherwise made for her. 
At any rate, the tradition runs that she earnestly desired 
to be laid in the same grave with him. It does not fol- 
low, however, because he was the poet of the world, 
that his sweethearting was more romantic, soul-absorb- 
ing, beautiful, than that of other men. It may have 
been utterly prosaic and commonplace: such, indeed, 
is the reaction frequently found in the realities of the 
life of one of rare imaginative powers; but, somehow 
or other, as you walk about this old cottage, you feel 
that it was not that. The full, deep eyes of the man 
indicate a warmth and depth of soul, a force which 
would gather the very sweetness of roses into a sweep- 
ing wind of irresistible passion. And Ann? What 
was she ? Great geniuses make sad mistakes, but one 
does not like to think of the master-reader of human 
character doing so in this respect. Doubtless she was 
a comely village-maiden — not a sylph such as Miranda 
or a glowing beauty such as Juliet, but a true, home- 



26o THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

like Warwickshire damsel, even such a one as sweet 
Mistress Page. 

Well, here in the venerable cottage she was wooed 
and won by Stratford Will. There is no reason to doubt 
the tradition that this is the very house, though, when 
one has carefully examined all the evidence in its sup- 
port, it is not so absolutely convincing as one would like 
it to be. The feeling, however, is not confined to Ann 
Hathaway 's cottage : it comes up again in no less a place 
than the room in which the poet is said to have been 
born. Such scepticism is wicked, perhaps unreasonable, 
but it underlies most of the traditional testimony, never- 
theless. 

In a room up stairs — the best bedroom of the Hath- 
aways — is an old carved bedstead probably of Eliza- 
bethan age ; there are also several chests and a stool of 
the same period. The pleasant old lady already men- 
tioned showed me a sheet woven and made three hun- 
dred years ago, when by such work the maids of the 
family earned their title of " spinster." It is neatly spun 
and has a line of inserted embroidery up the middle. 
The flooring, the walls and the beams of the house are 
unaltered ; the queer little staircase, the diamond-paned 
dormers, the small low- ceiled rooms, the rude latches to 
the heavy, worm-eaten doors, the veritable old furniture 
and the wide fireplace with its cosey corners have an in- 
terest delightful and absorbing. Judging from the house, 
the Hathaways were plain and fairly well-to-do people. 
In front of the cottage is the old well, which tradition 
says is as it was in Shakespeare's days — when, perhaps, 
Master Will drew a bucket to save Mistress Ann the 
labor. From the little garden my agreeable guide gath- 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 26 1 

ered me a small posy of flowers — not, I presume, the 
lineal descendants of the flowers Ann Hathaway tended, 
if she tended any, but surely such as she and her Will 
saw and plucked as they rambled arm in arm through 
the lanes and the gardens of this sweet village. There 
are still the flowers and the herbs which were popular in 
the olden time — rue, thyme, lavender, marigold, rose- 
mary and celandine — and in the orchard, full of knolls 
and hollows, are apples, pears, cherries and plums. 
From the seat near the cottage door much the same 
scene now presents itself as the lovers beheld long, long 
ago— the hills of Ilmington to the south in their wood- 
land glory, the spire of Stratford church peeping up over 
the elm trees, and here and there ancient cottages with 
their sun-browned thatched roofs ; a gentle land where 
life peacefully flows through time undisturbed by the 
ambitions of mighty cities — like, indeed, unto the silvery 
Avon as it restfully meanders amid the bright green 
meadows. The walk across the fields to Stratford is 
very pleasant. I could get no certain information as to 
the age of this footpath, but for long after the poet's 
time the Shottery people continued to attend Stratford 
church, and there was naturally constant communication 
between the village and the town. 

On re-entering the town I passed along the chestnut 
walk and soon found myself at the old grammar-school. 
This was founded in 1482 and is a plain building of two 
stories, the lower of which was the guild-hall, where the 
citizens met in council and where plays were sometimes 
performed, and the upper the schoolroom. It is easy to 
picture Shakespeare wending his way to this fount of 
learning, plodding over his lessons as with slow steps he 



262 THE HEART OF ME RE IE ENGLAND. 

approached and ascended its stairs, and then listening, as 
boys everywhere listen, with more or less attention to 
the instruction given by the prodigiously-learned school- 
master; but such a picture depends solely upon imag- 
ination. It may not be autobiographically — for Shake- 
speare may have been a ready and an industrious scholar 
— but the melancholy Jacques speaks of 

" The whining schoolboy, with his satchel, 
And shining morning face, creeping like snail 
Unwillingly to school ;" 

and it may have been the recollection of his pedagogue, 
his Sir Hugh Evans, that led the poet to say of Malvo- 
lio, " He does smile his face into more lines than are in 
the new map, with the augmentation of the Indies." I 
have no doubt the wool-stapler's son went here to school ; 
I have also no doubt the Stratford people have been gen- 
erous in their discovery of traditions, and have made 
leaps at conclusions possible only to intellectual acrobats. 
These old, overhanging, black-beamed houses, however, 
have an interest apart from Shakespeare : they speak of 
that grand old world in which lived he and many of the 
noblest and the mightiest of England's sons. 

Joining the grammar-school is the chapel of the guild 
of the Holy Cross, " a right goodly Chapell," as Leland 
describes it, dating from the time of Henry VII., but 
looking very worn and much older. The iconoclasts of 
the Reformation and of the Puritan ages did not leave it 
untouched ; some of its images were destroyed and its 
mural paintings were whitewashed over. Among the 
latter was a remarkably fine picture of the martyrdom 
of St. Thomas of Canterbury and a series upon the his- 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 263 

tory, and especially the invention and the exaltation, of 
the holy cross. The antique porch with its quaint gar- 
goyles attracts attention. On the left-hand outside cor- 
ner of this doorway is the singularly grotesque head of 
a man with his fingers in the corners of his mouth, 
stretching it open as schoolboys sometimes do, so that 
the water may spout through. A few years, and age 
and weather will have entirely obliterated this bit of odd 
humor. The building is in the Decorated style, and in 
its fine old tower is said to be one of the sweetest bells 
ever made by man. This bell uttered its " sweete and 
perfect sownde " not only for divine service, but also to 
gather the members of the guild. As everybody knows, 
the guilds were the friendly societies of the Middle 
Ages, and their usefulness as bonds of social and com- 
mercial unity and their care for the poor and the needy 
made them popular among the people. In this place not 
only the grammar-school, but also a row of ancient alms- 
houses, testifies to the benefit and the charity of the local 
guild. However, Henry VIII. confiscated their property 
throughout the kingdom and appropriated their wealth 
to distribute among his friends and to his own purposes. 
A cruder or a more ungodly act of vandalism was never 
perpetrated in the name of religion. 

Across the street is the " New Place " where Shake- 
speare lived in his latter days, and where he died. Here 
we may picture the poet, beloved and laurel-crowned, 
resting in his quiet home-life amidst congenial surround- 
ings and visited by cherished friends and acquaintances. 
The eventide of his life, so uncertain are its details, seems 
filled with the calm, misty glory which dims and yet 
makes radiant the objects upon which it falls. The 



264 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

house was in Shakespeare's time one of the most import- 
ant and largest in the town. It had an orchard and a 
garden stretching down to the Avon. Now a few pieces 
of the foundation alone remain; the rest was pulled 
down in the last century by an amiable clergyman, but 
the true reason therefor is wrapped in mystery. The 
garden is beautifully kept — the garden in which the poet 
walked and entertained his friends, and through the trees 
of which he saw the walls and the tower of the guild 
chapel. Sit down within the tree-shade on one of these 
rustic benches — or, better still, on the green-sodded bank 
itself — and think of him who once trod this very ground 
and whose flowers once grew in this very soil. Here 
rare Ben Jonson may have walked arm in arm with him, 
perchance across such another velvety lawn as that one, 
and here were told stories and came to life creations 
which shall for ever hold man spellbound. In the dark- 
ening twilight, when the sweet chanting of the evensong 
from the neighboring chapel lingers in the summer air as 
in days of yore, and the sky is bright with sprinkled 
splendor, this is the spot to realize the force of Lorenzo's 
lines : 

" How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! 
Here we will sit and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony. 
Sit, Jessica ; look how the floor of heaven 
Is thick-inlaid with patines of bright gold : 
There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
But in his motion like an angel sings, 
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins ; 
Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." 



AT S TEA TFORD- ON- A VON 265 

A great many tourists were here at the same time as 
myself, looking with great reverence upon these remains 
of the man all men adore. I only hope that they, and 
others such as they, will think kindly of the pilgrims 
who in mediaeval times frequented sacred shrines. This 
modern age regards the visit to the town of Shakespeare 
as the right thing, and the reverent pilgrimage to his 
grave and the gazing upon his relics as highly com- 
mendable ; it looks back upon the journey to the tomb 
of Edward the Confessor or to that of Thomas a Becket 
as rank superstition. 

It is twenty years since I made my first visit to the 
poet's birthplace, in Henley street, but my interest in 
that sacred spot has grown with time and is as fresh as 
ever. What a centre of the world's homage! What 
multitudes have entered this old cottage ! The eye no 
longer rests upon the ancient Tudor tenements of the 
neighborhood with their dark timbers, gables, jutting 
windows and signboards, nor upon the undrained and 
badly-paved streets where pigs wallowed in the mire and 
fowl scratched among the garbage ; but this house re- 
mains to link us with the past and with this same Shake- 
speare. I suppose he sat on that seat in the great roomy 
fireplace, looked out of this oddly-glazed window and 
played on this floor. Any way, this was the scene of 
his childhood — a dark old place, but no doubt very 
comfortable in bygone days. Up stairs is the room in 
which the poet was born. Does any one doubt its being 
the very room ? The world believes it implicitly, yet 
the minor facts of Christianity rest upon a foundation 
which is as eternal rock compared with the evidence for 
this tradition. It is, however, highly probable that the 



266 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

tradition is correct : who could reasonably question, if 
it occurred in this house, that the birth would be ar- 
ranged for in the best bedroom? The walls and the 
ceiling are covered with autographs — an evidence of the 
intense interest the world has in this small chamber. 
There are also some names scratched on the window- 
panes. This way of immortalizing one's self is now de- 
nied the public: visitors are required to write their 
names and their residences in a book prepared for that 
purpose. There are a few odd pieces of furniture in the 
room, but there is no proof that they have any connec- 
tion with Shakespeare. When the bare unsightly walls 
were covered with arras, the place presented a more 
comfortable appearance than it now does. Other rooms, 
heavy beamed, low roofed and dimly lighted, suggest 
pleasant visions of the simple Stratford family. An old 
desk, massive and cumbersome, is shown ; it is said to 
be the one Shakespeare used in the grammar-school. It 
is interesting for that tradition, and he may have sat at 
it in common with other scholars ; but it is even more 
interesting as affording an illustration of the universality 
of schoolboy nature through all the ages. It is whittled 
and carved in true style, covered with initials and de- 
vices even such as would become our youth of to-day. 
The portrait in the iron safe up stairs is said to be gen- 
uine. Many others are shown in the museum, each 
different in some respects from the others, and yet all 
noticeably agreeing in the high, wide forehead and the 
full, clear eye. In this same museum — an adjoining cot- 
tage opening into the kitchen-room of Shakespeare's 
house — are preserved the early editions of the poet's 
works, books illustrating them and his life, documents 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 267 

in some way connected with him, and many other relics, 
some of them very full of interest. The tradition of the 
Bidford drinking-bout and the crab-tree slumber is 
carefully preserved by pictures, etc. The very chair from 
the " Falcon Inn," in that village, in which Shakespeare 
sat at his revels, is shown. It is old enough to have 
jerved for that purpose, but, unfortunately, there is little 
certainty of the truth of the legend. This Bidford was 
famous in those days for its company of ale-soaked to- 
pers, and, as drinking-matches were then common, one 
Whitmonday — so runs the story — some Stratford men, 
Will Shakespeare among the number, went to that place 
to test its nut-brown ale and to challenge its boast of the 
championship of England. The " topers " were away on 
a match at Evesham at the time, and only the " sippers " 
remained to defend the renown of their village. The 
Stratford men soon found that they were no match for 
their opponents, and, being anxious to get home while 
they had some strength and skill left, beat a hasty re- 
treat. When half a mile on the way, they were quite 
overcome, and were obliged to lie down under a crab 
tree by the roadside, where they slept till next morning. 
Some would then have returned to the attack, but the 
youthful Will had had enough of " drunken Bidford." 
There may be some allusion to such drinking-matches 
in the resolve of Slender: "I'll ne'er be drunk whilst I 
live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this 
trick ; if I be drunk, I'll be drunk with those that have 
the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves." The 
story, though long believed by Stratfordians and not al- 
together improbable, is, most likely, a fabrication — alas ! 
in spite of the fact that the crab tree kept its place till 



268 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

the winter of 1824. As one wanders about the house 
so fragrant with associations of deepest interest one feels 
that the strangest thing of all is that of a man so great 
as was this man we really know so little. 

From Henley street to the parish church, dedicated to 
the Holy Trinity and retaining its ancient collegiate priv- 
ileges, is a walk of ten minutes. A noble lime-tree avenue 
leads up from the gateway to the principal porch. Some 
portions of the sacred edifice are Early English and Deco- 
rated, but the best parts are Perpendicular. The clerestory 
of the nave is remarkably well lighted with Decorated 
windows unusually large and close together. In the north 
aisle was once a chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin ; 
in the south, one to St. Thomas of Canterbury. Now in 
the former are several altar-tombs, mostly of the Clop- 
ton family and having upon them some well-executed 
recumbent effigies. The chancel was built in the latter 
part of the fifteenth century by Dr. Thomas Balsall, dean 
of Stratford, and is a perfect and beautiful specimen of 
Perpendicular work. There, inside the altar-rails, is the 
grave of the poet. Not long since it was outside, but 
the constant press of visitors began to wear away the 
stone, and so the rails were moved forward to a lower 
step. What can I say of this sacred spot that others 
have not said ? Here is something tangible of Shake- 
speare — something that brings home to you the fact of 
his existence. In his marvellous work you overlook the 
fact of his personality : the creator is forgotten for the 
nonce in the loveliness and the might of the creation ; 
but as you look upon this plain slab with its oft-re- 
peated inscription you realize the very truth of him who 
is primus inter pares — the prince through all the ages, 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 269 

outshining even the pure glory of Homer and Dante. — 
Sweet Will ! grand as thou art in thine unapproachable 
splendor, thy majesty greater than that of the kings 
whom thou hast made to live in thy wondrous lines, 
how dear thou art to the hearts of all men ! No ; none 
shall touch thy sacred dust : thou shalt sleep in peace 
till 

" The dreadful trumpet sound the general doom." 

Is not the fact that Shakespeare is here buried a suffi- 
cient refutation of the story invented by some one that 
he died a papist ? Over his open grave was read the 
office of the Church of England — an act which would 
not have been done or been allowed by either Anglicans 
or Latins had he been a member of the Roman obedi- 
ence. In that age of bitter Protestantism neither his po- 
sition nor his talents would have overcome the scruples 
of his townsmen — intensely Puritanical as they were — 
and led them to honor him as they did. 

In one of the graveyards of Fredericksburg, Va., there 
is a relic to which we may here direct attention. It is a 
slab of red sandstone, on which may be deciphered these 
words : 

Here lies the body of 

Edward Heldon, 

Practitioner in Physics and Chi- 

rurgery. Born in Bedfordshire, 

England, in the year of our Lord 

1542. Was contemporary with, and 

one of the pall bearers of William 

Shakespeare of the Avon. After a 

brief illness his spirit ascended in 

the year of our Lord 1618 — 

aged 76. 



270 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

On the one side of the poet's grave lies his wife, once 
sweet mistress Ann, and on the other side his favorite 
daughter, Susanna, wife of John Hall. His daughter 
Judith is also buried there. Other graves and tombs 
are close by — beside the altar a monument to Shake- 
speare's friend, John Combe, and on the south side of the 
sanctuary one, much defaced, to the builder of this part 
of the church. On the wall over the west end of the 
latter monument is the famous bust of Shakespeare. 
This was erected perhaps earlier, but certainly within 
seven years of his death, and, as it is generally admitted 
to have been worked from a cast of his features, it is the 
only known trustworthy representation of him. Here 
may be seen his fine, full, round face, towering brow, 
light-hazel, large-orbed eyes, auburn hair and beard, ex- 
pressive lips and well-set chin. The signs of genius are 
there, if they have ever been expressed in the counte- 
nance of man. The scarlet doublet and the black sleeve- 
less gown in which he is clad bring him before us as he 
was when on high-days and holidays he walked along 
the streets of London and of Stratford. 

The timber roof of the chancel is fine 5 at the ends of 
the beams are well-carved figures holding armorial shields 
on their breasts. At the corbels on which these beams 
rest are also sculptured figures in stone which join the 
smaller figures at the end of the mouldings over the 
window arches. The three figures in a row, recurring 
several times, have a singular effect. The great Perpen- 
dicular window in the east, resplendent with the glory of 
stained glass, and the American window, in like manner 
glorious, are very good ; and the doorway on the north 
side, near the altar-rails, once leading, I believe, to a 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 27 1 

great charnel-house long since pulled down, has at the 
terminations of its arch-moulding — or, rather, had, for 
they are nearly obliterated — carvings of St. Christopher 
and the Annunciation. The niches and the miserere seats 
are deserving of notice ; also the old carved pews. In 
the south transept is the font in which Shakespeare was 
baptized, also an altar-tomb dating about 1593, with an 
inscription in Hebrew, Greek, Latin and English. It is 
needless to record the several inscriptions relating to the 
poet, but the following is a copy of that belonging to 
this tomb: 



" Heare borne, heare lived, heare died, and buried heare, 
Lieth Richarde Hil, thrise bailif of this borrow ; 
Too matrones of good fame he married in Godes feare, 
And now releast in joi, he reasts from worldie sorrow. 



" Heare lieth entomb'd the corps of Richarde Hil, 
A woollen draper beeing in his time ; 
Whose virtues live, whose fame dooth flourish stil, 
Though hee desolved be to dust and slime. 
A mirror he, and paterne mai be made 
For such as shall suckcead him in that trade ; 
He did not used to sweare, to glose, eather faigne, 
His brother to defraude in barganinge ; 
Hee woold not strive to get excessive gaine 
In any cloath or other kind of thinge ; 
His servant, S. I. this trueth can testifie, 
A witness that beheld it with mi eie." 



Dugdale preserved the following copy of verses in- 
scribed on the tombstone of Susanna Hall, but after- 
ward obliterated to make room for the record of a 
certain Richard Watts : 

18 



2?2 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

" Heere lyeth y e body of Svsanna wife to Iohn Hall gent : y e daughter 
of William Shakespeare, gent : Shee deceased y e ijth of iuly A . 1649, 
aged 66. 

Witty above her sexe, but that's not all, 
Wise to salvation was good Mistris Hall. 
Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this 
Wholy of him with whom she's now in blisse. 

Then, Passenger, hast ne're a teare, 

To weepe with her that wept with all ? 

That wept, yet set her selfe to chere 

Them up with comforts cordiall. 

Her love shall live, her mercy spread, 

When thou ha'st ner'e a teare to shed." 



The external appearance of the church in grace and 
dignity well becomes the mausoleum of Shakespeare. 
It is cruciform, the battlemented tower, surmounted by 
a modern spire, rising from the intersection of the nave 
and choir and the two transepts. Outside the chancel, 
at the heads of the buttresses and along the panelled 
and embattled parapet, are many grotesque figures — 
toads, dragonflies, fish, etc. Such representations of 
natural objects on the outside are not uncommon in 
churches of this and of earlier periods. Sometimes 
they are grotesque, sometimes fairly accurate repre- 
sentations — birds, beasts, reptiles and fishes. Possibly 
the intention of the old artists in putting these figures 
outside was to indicate that the animal creation was ex- 
ternal to the realm and object of grace. They are rare- 
ly — never in a grotesque form or otherwise than as sym- 
bols of some virtue or personage — placed inside the 
building, and yet, on the other hand, designs of flow- 
ers seem to have no restrictions : if anything, they pre- 
dominate in the interior. Flowers, however, in them- 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 2JI 

selves so beautiful, are the fittest and the sweetest sym- 
bols of that which is heavenly and divine. They are 
fragments of glory — cast-off bits of celestial material 
which ere they fell to earth were touched by the sweep- 
ing robes of angels, and thus received a beauty and a 
hue, alas ! such as can only be evanescent in a world 
such as ours. 

The sweet Avon flows gently by this noble house of 
God, and the meadows beyond look lovely in their sum- 
mer dress. In the churchyard are many old tombstones. 
The orthography of one on the south side of the church 
struck me as peculiar. The inscription is to the memory 
of two women who died in the spring of 1699, aged, re- 
spectively, eighty-seven and thirty-seven years. Where- 
abouts they are buried I do not know, for the stone has 
been removed from its original position to serve as a sort 
of curbstone where it now is. This desecration, so sug- 
gestive of an unsympathetic spirit and deserving of every 
condemnation, is not uncommon in the old English 
churchyards, though it is possibly confined to the util- 
itarians of some few generations since. My transcrip- 
tion is carefully exact : with the exception of the k in 
11 Stroks," which is a capital, it is precisely as it is en- 
graved on the stone. 

" Death creeps Abought on hard 
And Steals Abroad on Seen 
Hur darts are Suding and hur arous Keen 
Hur Stroks are deadly com 8 they soon or late 
When being Strock Repentance is to Late 
Death is A minute ful of Suden Sorrow 
Then Live to day as thou mayest dy to morow." 

Curious ways of giving dates also attract attention. Of 



274 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

a woman it is said she died " in the 40 Second year of 
her age." Sometimes the old gravestone-cutters chipped 
out the tens first and then the units ; thus, for 34 we 
find 304. 

There is a right of way through the churchyard, and 
the walk by the Avon is exceedingly pleasant. On a 
stone near that walk is the name " Davidona," unique in 
my experience and not mentioned by Miss Charlotte 
Yonge. There is an old stone seat — I fancy it was once 
a tomb — where visitors may sit in the shade of the trees 
and look upon the river and the fields beyond. How 
softly the warm beams fall through the leafy branches 
and play like bright-robed seraphs amongst the graves 
and on the cool, tiny wavelets ! There are a few trees 
farther down to suggest the willow-shaded stream of 
Ophelia; the fish leap to the fly in the sunshine and 
merry ripples play around the boats with young men and 
women rowing hither and thither. Such a restful sum- 
mer scene as this Shakespeare must have looked upon ; 
nay, he undoubtedly wandered up and down that gentle 
river, peering into its banks for the holes of otter and of 
rat, seeking to catch pike or perch or trout, perhaps going 
over love's sweet story to his dear Ann of Shottery, and 
perhaps dreaming out some of those creations which 
must be the wonder of the world till the end of time. It 
is all Shakespeare. The green grass, the willow and the 
lime trees, the sunshine, the glittering water, the noble 
church, the fields so fresh and living, the birds that flit 
from bough to pinnacle and from wall to tree, — every- 
thing speaks of him. If elsewhere nature is the ex- 
pression, the robe, of Deity, here nature is filled with 
the spirit of the man to whom God gave a supreme, 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 27$ 

magnificent and unique gift. Who visiting this conse- 
crated place does not for ever after read Shakespeare 
with the greatest interest and the fullest appreciation ? 

Apart from the places associated with the poet there 
is nothing of much interest in the town. A few old 
houses remain — very few, considering — and one looks 
with pleasure upon their gabled roofs and the black 
timbers. The streets are very clean and well kept ; the 
shops, small and tidy. There is an appearance of pros- 
perity: Shakespeare is evidently to Stratford what 
Becket was to Canterbury, or, to put it differently, the 
one made and the other is making the trade and the life 
of their respective towns. The constant presence of vis- 
itors from many lands gives to the people something of a 
cosmopolitan polish and politeness ; their speech is fairly 
free from provincialisms, and they have as full and as 
just an appreciation of the distinction which their town 
has received by having greatness thrust upon it as they 
have a bright and attentive disposition toward both busi- 
ness and pleasure. I made several purchases, and in one 
shop bought a pair of " Shakespearean " gloves. The 
pretty twelve-year-old girl who sold them amused me by 
blushingly and naively saying, " Of course, sir, if they 
don't fit, we will change them." She did not understand 
that in a relic the matter of size is of little consequence. 

Four miles from Stratford is Charlecote, once the 
home of that Sir Thomas Lucy to whom Shakespeare 
gave an immortality of ridicule as Justice Shallow. The 
story runs that the poet, having fallen into ill company, 
made a practice of stealing the knight's deer, for which 
offence Sir Thomas naturally sought redress in prose- 
cution. Shakespeare was followed closely and severely, 



276 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

and in the spring of 1585 he resolved to leave his busi- 
ness and family in Stratford and to seek shelter in Lon- 
don, But before he left Warwickshire he wrote a bitter 
ballad upon Sir Thomas Lucy and nailed it on one of 
the posts of the park gate. Only one stanza of this 
ballad has been preserved, and, to say the least, there is 
little or none of the Shakespearean ring about it : 

" A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse ; 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
He thinks himself great, 
Yet an asse in his state, 

We allowe of his ears but with asses to mate ; 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it." 

Passages in the Merry Wives of Windsor are said to con- 
tain allusions to the tradition, and to the unfortunate 
knight so severely lampooned. Possibly there may be 
some truth in the legend, though it should be remem- 
bered that the earliest mention of it is about 1707, that 
none of Shakespeare's rivals, who were ready enough to 
pick flaws in him, ever twitted him with it, that the pun- 
ishment for deer-stealing was not, as the legend affirms, 
whipping, but imprisonment and fine, and, lastly, that 
Sir Thomas Lucy had no deer-park and no deer. Nev- 
ertheless Charlecote — or Ceorlcote, the home of the hus- 
bandman, according to the Saxon — is indissolubly con- 
nected with the poet, and they who visit Stratford should 
also go farther and see the ancient village. Well will 
they be repaid for so doing. Read these sympathetic 
lines from the pen of Charles Knight : " There stands, 



A T STRA TFORD- ON- A VON 2J J 

with slight alterations — and those in good taste — the old 
mansion as it was reared in the days of Elizabeth. A 
broad avenue leads to its great gateway, which opens 
into the court and the principal entrance. We would 
desire to people that hall with kindly inmates, to imag- 
ine the fine old knight — perhaps a little too puritanical, 
indeed, in his latter days — living there in peace and hap- 
piness with his family ; merry as he ought to have been 
with his first wife, Jocosa (whose English name, Joyce, 
soundeth not quite so pleasant), whose epitaph, by her 
husband, is honorable alike to the deceased and to the 
survivor. We can picture him planting the second 
avenue, which leads obliquely across the park from the 
great gateway to the porch of the parish church. It is 
an avenue too narrow for carriages, if carriages had then 
been common ; and the knight and his lady walked in 
stately guise along that grassy pathway, as the Sunday 
bells summon them to meet their humble neighbors in 
a place where all are equal. Charlecote is full of rich 
woodland scenery. The lime-tree avenue may, perhaps, 
be of a later date than the age of Elizabeth, and one elm 
has evidently succeeded another, century after century. 
But there are old gnarled oaks and beeches dotted about 
the park. Its little knolls and valleys are the same as 
they were two centuries ago. The same Avon flows be- 
neath the gentle elevation on which the house stands, 
sparkling in the sunshine as brightly as when that house 
was first built. There may we still lie 

* Under an oak, where antique roots peep out 
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood,' 

and doubt not that there was the place to which 



278 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

1 a poor sequester' d stag, 
That from the hunter's aim had ta'en a hurt, 
Did come to languish.' 

" There we may still see 

* a careless herd, 
Full of the pasture,' 

leaping gayly along or crossing the river at their own 
will in search of fresh fields and low branches whereon 
to browse. The village of Charlecote is now one of the 
prettiest of objects. Whatever is new about it — and 
most of the cottages are new — looks like a restoration 
of what was old. The same character prevails in the 
neighboring village of Hampton Lucy, and it may not 
be too much to assume that the memory of him who 
walked in these pleasant places in his younger days, long 
before the sounds of his greatness had gone forth to the 
ends of the earth, has led to the desire to preserve here 
something of the architectural character of the age in 
which he lived." 

In Charlecote church is the tomb of Sir Thomas and 
Lady Lucy. The former died in 1 600 — a man high in 
position and worthily esteemed by his neighbors. On 
the front of the altar-shaped tomb are the figures of Sir 
Thomas and the Lady Joyce kneeling in prayer. Upon 
the top they lie in full-length effigy, dressed in the cos- 
tume of the period, with folded hands, and in the features 
of the old knight — well executed and probably accurate 
— we may discern a nobility of character far greater than 
a Justice Shallow could possibly have had. The wife's 
virtues are recorded on a black slab at the back of the 
tomb in the following touching and beautiful inscription: 



AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 279 

"Here entombed lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy, wife of Sir 
Thomas Lucy, of Cherlecote, in the county of Warwick, Knight, 
Daughter and Heir of Sir Thomas Acton, of Sutton, in the county 
of Worcester, Esquier, who departed out of this wretched world 
to her heavenly kingdome the tenth day of February, in the year 
of our Lord God 1595, of her age LX and three. All the time 
of her life a true and faithfull servant of her good God, never de- 
tected of any crime or vice ; in religion most sound ; in love to 
her husband most faithful and true ; in friendship most constant ; 
to what was in trust committed to her most secret ; in wisdome 
excelling ; in governing of her house, and bringing up of youth in 
the feare of God that did converse with her, most rare and singu- 
lar. A great maintainer of hospitality; greatly esteemed of her 
betters; misliked of none unless of the envious. When all is 
spoken that can be said, a woman so furnished and garnished 
with virtue, as not to be bettered, and hardly to be equalled by 
any. As she lived most virtuously, so she dyed most godly. Set 
down by him that best did know what hath been written to be 
true. 

Thomas Lucy." 

A husband who could say so much of his wife could not 
have been deserving of such obloquy as that heaped 
upon him by an idle story of a youthful poacher. 

And now my day at Stratford began to darken for its 
close. In the still, warm twilight I set out on my return 
journey. The drive was full of pleasant thoughts and 
delightful reminiscences. The stone bridge of fourteen 
pointed arches over the Avon was built by a Clopton in 
the reign of Henry VII., and is still good and sound. Just 
on the other side is an inn named " The Shoulder of Mut- 
ton ;" the old sign, battered and broken, retains on it a 
figure with some resemblance to that joint of meat. The 
tavern was long since of more importance than it now is. 
As we pass through the villages on the way we notice 
the great number of children ; at one small place no less 



280 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

than eighteen, all dirty from head to foot, gathered in 
the road to look at us. As the night-gloom thickens 
the stars peep out one by one, faint streams of light are 
cast across the road from cottage candles, bats and owls 
sweep leisurely by, and the eye grows weary of peering 
into the darkness. Nature has robed herself for rest. 

I ride silently along, half thinking, half dreaming, and, 
among other things, the old bridge over which we passed 
reminds me of the story of poor Charlotte Clopton. She 
was a sweet-looking girl — so the authentic legend runs 
— with pale-gold hair combed back from her forehead 
and falling in wavy ringlets on her neck, and with eyes 
that " looked like violets filled with dew." They who 
have seen her picture, which is still preserved, say she 
was full of grace and beauty. When Shakespeare was 
an infant, a plague broke out in the town and the neigh- 
borhood of Stratford, and from it this comely and noble- 
born maiden sickened, and to all appearance died. With 
fearful haste they laid her in the vaults of the Clopton 
chapel in the parish church. In a few days another of 
the family died ; but when they carried him down the 
gloomy stairs into the vault, by the torchlight they saw 
Charlotte Clopton, in her grave-clothes, leaning against 
the wall. They drew nearer ; she was indeed dead, but 
she had passed away jn the agonies of despair and hun- 
ger. This fearful event, if it did not suggest, possibly 
helped the poet to realize, the well-known catastrophe 
of Romeo* and Juliet. 



CHAPTER XII. 

" While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow' d land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale." 

It was on an October day in the year 1642 that the 
royalists and the Parliamentarians met on the battlefield 
of Edgehill. This fact has given an historic interest to 
one of the most lovely districts in the English Mid- 
lands, and attracts to the neighborhood many who are 
interested in the great struggle of the seventeenth cen- 
tury. There are also villages and hamlets scattered 
about this quiet region, both pretty and ancient, their 
names indicating early Saxon origin, and their peaceful 
life and their gentle beauty, as they nestle half playfully, 
half shyly, amidst the bright green trees, suggesting the 
simplicity and the happiness of Eden. Here one may 
still see England much as it was in the days of yore, and 
behold in their perfection the power and the charm of a 
rural life on which Nature has right royally bestowed 
some of her best gifts, and where the people are for the 
most part untouched by the realities of modern progress. 
Next to living in such an Arcadia, the best way to ap- 
preciate and understand it, to find out its secrets and to 

281 



282 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

enjoy its delights, is to pass leisurely and contentedly 
through it on foot. It is no use to hurry through, 
riding or driving as if time were of consequence ; 
neither meadow nor village, neither woodland nor hill- 
side, will unfold its sweet mysteries to one who impa- 
tiently or thoughtlessly rushes along. Life is slow and 
quiet here, and they who cannot for the nonce enter 
into the same calm, steady spirit had better not visit 
the valley of the Red Horse nor climb the heights of 
Edgehill. 

At Shipston the shadows were long and the streets 
were still when in the bright summer morning I set out 
on my ramble through this part of the country. It was 
not for the first time in my life : every step and every 
scene of the way was familiar and awakened pleasant 
recollections and associations. I passed over the mill- 
bridge, beneath which the boys still wade and fish for 
minnows and sticklebacks, as they have done for gen- 
erations. The sunbeams flow through the willows on 
the bank and make the dewdrops sparkle and the tiny 
ripples on the clear water shimmer. A solitary frog 
plunges into the stream, the birds are twittering and 
looking eagerly for the early worm, and the cows in the 
meadow are busy at the mist-wet herbage. I cross the 
fields and soon reach Fell Mill lane, so called from a 
mill once used for felling cloth — an ideal lane, tree- 
arched, hedge-hemmed and grass-bordered. Here you 
may hear the full, rich song of the blackbird and the 
thrush ; and if you will remain motionless for a while, 
you may see partridges feeding in the wheatfields close 
by, rabbits skipping in the green sward, and linnets, 
blackcaps and wrens nest-building or bathing in the 



TO EDGEHILL. 283 

road dust. The woodpecker taps away at the withered 
branch in the elm and the rat comes sniffling up out of 
the ditch, undisturbed by the bleating of the sheep in 
the meadow or the barking of the dog at the distant 
farmyard or the cackling of the geese on their way to 
pasture or to water. Earlier in the year the cry of 
" Cuckoo !" falls upon your ear, and in the late twilight 
the melody of the nightingale flows from the wayside 
orchard. The moment you stir all is changed : the rats 
and the rabbits run, the partridges whir away, the birds 
flyoli: 

As I walk on through the lane I meet two or three 
haymakers — stolid-looking, stiff-moving, carrying their 
scythes and rakes, and also their earthen jug of small- 
beer. I wish them " Good-morning " and turn into the 
road running across the fields, in which sheep and cattle 
and horses are grazing, past the farm known as St. Den- 
nis, to Tysoe. In the still, bright morning the country 
appeared picturesque and pleasing. One could not tire 
of looking at the fresh green hedgerows, the tall tree- 
clumps, the fertile hills and the waving fields of corn. 
In the ponds which here and there occurred by the road- 
side ducks and geese were waddling or swimming and 
cows were cooling themselves and thoughtfully chewing 
the cud. Only once did I meet any one in the five 
miles between Fell Mill lane and Tysoe. Nor, indeed, 
did I wish to have the sweet solitude broken. Alone 
one can think aloud, hum over snatches of old melodies, 
recall passages of the poets, drop leisurely into desultory 
arguments with one's self, build castles as high and as 
glorious as the towers and the palaces of cloudland, 
take in the scenery around, and stop at one's own sweet 



284 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

will to behold this attraction or to examine that cu- 
riosity. 

It was still early when I reached the little straggling 
village of Tysoe. The place is old ; the church is said 
to have been built two hundred years before the Nor- 
man Conquest, and some parts of it may indeed be as 
ancient. Between the nave and the chancel is a small 
bell- cot or turret apparently as old as the rest of the 
building, and possibly in days gone by containing the 
bell which was rung at the consecration and elevation 
of the Host. In the yard, full of graves, is part of an 
old stone cross. These crosses are of frequent occur- 
rence in ancient and mediaeval churchyards. After ser- 
vice did the people of bygone times adjourn from the 
church to the space immediately around such crosses as 
this to hear sermons ? The village is well supplied with 
arched fountains in the walls by the roadside. One of 
these fountains is surmounted by a cross and has run- 
ning along the line of the arch the appropriate words, 
"Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again, 
but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give 
him shall never thirst." Doubtless many a weary- 
hearted villager who has come here to draw has realized 
the strength of these words, to the comfort of his soul. 

From Tysoe I passed along the road skirting the foot 
of Edgehill till I reached the Stratford and Banbury 
highway, leading directly up to the summit by the " Sun- 
Rising." This was formerly, in the days of stage-coach 
travelling and as far back as 1642, an inn of some celeb- 
rity, but it is now used as a farmhouse. Some who are 
now living remember when it was busy and prosperous, 
when " mine host " welcomed travellers to his friendly 



TO EDGE HILL. 285 

portals and hostlers, drivers, farmers and wayfarers made 
the old kitchen or tap-room a scene of riotous joy. Now 
the only signs of life visible were an elderly lady in a 
morning-wrapper and curl-papers writing at a table near 
an open window, and a pretty and comely damsel stand- 
ing at another window thoughtfully looking down the 
hill for some chance being to come and break the matin 
monotony. Evidently she did not see a stranger every 
day ; for when I asked her if the bridle-path on the op- 
posite side of the road led to the " Tower," the rosy hue 
passed richly and softly over her cream-white cheeks and 
she answered me with a kindly tremulous voice. I won- 
der if such graceful maidens gladdened the eyes and the 
hearts of the Cavaliers in the days when they frequented 
this neighborhood ? The bridle-path runs along the top 
of the ridge, now across a pleasant clearing and now 
through the shady greenwood, while the view of the 
wide plain beneath is very fine — such, so an old writer 
says, as Lot beheld in the valley of the Jordan before 
Sodom fell. I should have enjoyed it much more had 
it not been for the swarms of flies. If Pharaoh was 
plagued worse, I pity him. At times I was obliged to 
keep my handkerchief in constant motion, or I should 
have been eaten alive. The path is much used, for 
many initials and names are cut in the trunks of the 
beech trees on either side. Frequently I heard the prat- 
tle and the laughter of picnickers and down the hillside 
caught glimpses of groups of young men and women. 
Delightful is the charm of a day's outing in the country, 
and especially in such a place as this, where mossy banks 
and crystal springs and deep shades and glorious vistas 
together help to satisfy the mind and to please the senses. 



236 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

I throw my blackthorn on the ground, take off my 
strapped wallet containing luncheon and guide-books, 
and sit down on a grassy bank within the shadow of the 
beeches to take in the magnificent panorama and to think 
upon the past suggested by it. On fine days the view 
extends — so it is said — into fourteen counties. On one 
side are the Malverns and on the other is Charnwood 
Forest. Coventry, Warwick and Stratford, with their 
spires and towers, are visible, and on the distant horizon 
rest the gray-black clouds of Birmingham. A well- 
wooded plain, set with picturesque villages and farms, 
threaded by the Avon, enriched with fertile fields and 
noble orchards, traversed by ancient roads and bordered 
by the glowing haze of a brilliant summer sky ! The eye 
rarely beholds a more lovely or extensive landscape or 
one in which Nature has been more prodigal of her rich- 
est gifts — not, indeed, the romance and the splendor of 
the mountain and the forest, but the quieter graces of a 
low, level country in which prosperity contentedly smiles 
in the sunshine and beauty seems to move under the 
vision like tinted waves of some wide emerald sea. As 
I look upon the picture I remember the word of old : 
" And God saw everything that he had made, and, be- 
hold, it was very good." Yes, very good ; and yet the 
ancient rabbis used to say that " God had taken of the 
dust under the throne of his glory and cast it upon the 
waters, which thus became earth." What, then, must be 
the land beyond the clouds ? If this glorious scene is 
but the shadow of the heavenly splendor, what must be 
the substance? And yet down in yonder fields, now 
lying so calm and peaceful, the angry and sinful pas- 
sions of man have arisen, brother has fought against 



TO EDGEHILL. 287 

brother and father against son, and the land has been 
defiled with blood. 

In the pages of Clarendon may be found the best de- 
scription of the famous battle. Near where I am now 
sitting the king viewed the progress of the struggle. In 
the plain below, the Parliamentarians, under the command 
of the earl of Essex, were encamped, twelve thousand 
strong. On the heights, of about equal strength, were 
the royal troops, one wing near the Sun-Rising, the main 
body where the Tower now stands, and the other wing 
commanding the road to Kineton. The key of the po- 
sition was thus in the hands of the king ; and, had his 
men remained on the hill and waited for Essex to attack, 
a decisive victory would in all probability have ended 
the conflict and changed the course of English history. 
The Puritans were stirred to vigor and zeal by the ex- 
hortations of their ministers. The red horse cut in the 
side of the hill opposite Tysoe became to them " the 
red horse of the wrath of the Lord," which he caused 
" to ride furiously to the ruin of the enemy." In the 
neighborhood the people, largely persuaded by the rebels 
that the Cavaliers were cruel and wicked and that they 
robbed and evilly treated the inhabitants wherever they 
went, hid their goods and sought to protect themselves 
against the coming of the king. " The very smiths hid 
themselves, that they might not be compelled to shoe 
horses." Through the day the two armies watched each 
other. An October Sunday, possibly the sound of the 
chiming bells in yonder towers came softly across the 
plain and some few pious souls on either side prayed 
that God would defend the right. At three o'clock in 
the afternoon the battle began, and the sun went down 
19 



288 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

and a thousand and half a thousand men lay dead upon 
the field. They were buried where they fell ; five hun- 
dred were thrown into a pit near to an elm-clump. 
Neither side had the victory, and neither side was de- 
sirous of renewing the combat. In the cold, frosty night 
the king's soldiers, shelterless and hungry, straggled into 
the villages to beg for food, but, as Clarendon puts it, 
many " were knocked in the head by the common peo- 
ple." Ere long the armies marched away, the ancient 
quiet returned, and the red coats of the. king's men and 
the orange scarfs of his enemies were seen no more. 

It is now an old study, that seventeenth century, and 
most people have long since ceased to hold exclusively 
with either side, but it is well to remember that the Puri- 
tans had no more a monopoly of the virtues of the age 
than had the Cavaliers of the vices. There were good 
men and bad men in both parties. The bad we may 
well pass by, but among the good none can forget such 
men as George Herbert and John Milton, the two poets 
of the period, nor Jeremy Taylor or Richard Baxter, 
two of its most eminent divines. It is true that Milton 
was a Puritan ; it is also true that Milton describes the 
saintly Bishop Andrewes entering paradise vested in the 
robes of his order. Yet to the churchman and the 
royalist the bare thought of lifting up the hand against 
the Lord's anointed was abhorrent. Charles was the 
king ; the crown had been set upon his brow and the 
consecrated oil had been poured upon his head, remov- 
ing him from among men, making him on earth the 
vicegerent of God and rendering his person sacred and 
his will law. The divine right of kings may be set aside 
now, but it was held then, and held, too, by many of the 



TO EDGEHILL. 289 

purest souls and the most thoughtful minds in England ; 
they, at least, could not understand how men dared to 
resist the prince. Others besides them could not un- 
derstand men who would abolish the ancient Church of 
the land, with its bishops, ritual and customs, and turn 
the sanctuaries of God, where beauty dwelt with holi- 
ness and splendor cast its vestment upon righteousness, 
from temples of worship into places of meeting. Ser- 
mons were good, but services were better ; and when 
the Puritan had the power — when he had poured out 
the blood of the king and the primate of all England 
on the scaffold, and thrust the bishops out of their sees 
and the parsons out of their parishes, and made it crim- 
inal for any to use the Book of Common Prayer — then 
were many hearts grieved and many souls oppressed. 
None can ever tell the full story of the cruelty and the 
wrong which the Puritan wrought in those days. He 
did in the seventeenth century what the papist had done 
in the sixteenth — persecuted the Church, condemned the 
Liturgy, exiled the clergy. Rome and Geneva have 
clasped hands against Anglicanism. No ; Walker's 
Sufferings of the Clergy is quite as dependable as Neal's 
History of the Puritans, and John Evelyn is worth more 
than Samuel Pepys. If in the reign of Elizabeth, and 
again in the reign of Charles II., the Church sought to 
drive her adversaries from the land, she but did that 
which she was forced to do for her own preservation. 
Doubtless there was wrong on both sides, but as of seed 
cast in the ground the bad perishes and the good re- 
mains, so that which was of evil among them has passed 
away and that which was of God abides even in our 
midst. 



29O THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

The country-people here do not know much beyond 
the facts that there was once a battle and that Oliver 
Cromwell did wonderful things toward settling the 
grievances of the poor. Some of them have heard of 
Julius Caesar, for one asked me the other day which 
came first in English history, the Roman or the Puri- 
tan. The man seemed hurt, as though I had detracted 
from the fame of Oliver, when I told him that the great 
Commonwealth man lived in the century before the last ; 
he had heard of him all his life, and therefore thought 
he was a hero of far-distant times. But exactly what 
Cromwell did beyond upsetting affairs generally and 
satisfactorily, or what was actually done at Edgehill, the 
men who plough yonder fields or tend the sheep in these 
pastures close by have no idea. They know some 
ghostly legends, though, and in the dull October even- 
ings, when the mists hang along the hillside and the 
gray shadows overspread the plain, they will hurry 
along these roads and paths, fearing and trembling lest 
they should see some of the dead ones who haunt the 
place. " Apparitions and prodigious noyses of war and 
battels," as an old writer affirms, have been seen and 
heard here ; and though in a clear, warm August noon- 
tide it is not so easy to people the plain with " incorpo- 
real substances " as it might be in the dim wintry twi- 
light, yet there comes to my mind an old story told me 
long ago by one whose years began before the last cen- 
tury ended, and who knew from his boyhood every nook 
and corner, every legend and tradition, of these parts. 

Among those who fought and fell in this battle — so 
runs the story — was a knight of noble birth and of brave 
and loyal soul. When living, he had made the welkin 



TO EDGEHILL. 29 1 

ring with his manly voice, and around his hearth clus- 
tered many a true and kindred spirit. No stint of hos- 
pitality was there in his day ; no lack of free souls to 
hail the baron of beef and the tankard of mead. He is 
said to have been the last gentleman in the neighbor- 
hood who took his greyhounds and his hawk to church. 
Such a good man, beloved as he was by all who knew 
him and having died in the noblest cause for which 
one can die — that of king and country — ought to have 
rested contentedly in his grave ; but no : for many years 
on the anniversary-night of the battle he was seen 
riding along the heights of Edgehill on a steed of fiery 
hue. Noiselessly the horse rushed hither and thither, 
and the rider — at times gesticulating fiercely with his 
sword, as though urging his troops to the front, and at 
times spurring his beast and bending forward his body, 
so as to pass swiftly on, but never uttering or causing 
sound, though clad in the armor of an "earthly warrior — 
had a careworn, shrivelled visage which all who saw it 
said belonged to the nether realm. For weeks, till the 
winter's rains washed them away, the imprints of the 
hoofs in the soil glowed brightly in the darkness. Some 
had seen them ; some, more venturous than others, had 
tried to touch them, but there was nothing, only they 
shone clearly and imparted to the fingers a strange 
trembling light. Nor was it only in this place that the 
knight of Edgehill appeared : people of reliable reputa- 
tion declared that they had seen him in the market, both 
at Stratford and at Shipston, and that he had examined 
their samples of grain and asked the price. Others said 
that he had been seen kneeling before the altar in the 
church in which he was buried, and others, again, that 



292 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

he frequented the avenue which wound through his 
park to his ancestral home. Of course everybody was 
alarmed. Old people shook their heads and said little, 
and young folks cared not to wander abroad after dark. 
Even the rude and unbelieving Commonwealth man 
ceased his swaggering and said his prayers when he 
passed by any of the haunts of the warrior-soul. So 
long as the Puritans ruled nothing could be done — the 
spirits are not amenable to such as they — but years af- 
ter, when a prelate sat once more in the chair of St. 
Oswald at Worcester, a well-remembered and successful 
attempt was made to " lay the ghost." 

One midnight — so says the legend — the bishop and 
the neighboring clergy, accompanied by a large con- 
course of people, proceeded to the church, near the altar 
of which was the grave of the old knight, covered with 
an inscribed stone. It was a wild night. The rain fell 
fast, the daws and owls screeched in the belfry, the light- 
ning flashed and the thunder rolled as though the day 
of doom had come, and the wind roared angrily as it 
shook the building and swayed the tall elms. The 
people began to imagine that the powers of darkness 
divined their purpose and were causing the elements 
to war against them, and a number of them waved yew- 
branches and rang the bells to drive away the evil ones. 
But the storm raged as fiercely as ever. When the 
bishop, standing on the altar-steps, solemnly adjured the 
knight to appear, there was intense and silent excitement 
as the echoes died away amid the distant arches, and 
every one trembled with fear lest the mandate should be 
obeyed. They who held the flaming torches stood as 
though ready to run, and even the clergy looked on 



TO EDGE HILL. 293 

with pallid faces. The charge was uttered again, and 
then again, three times, according to the form prescribed. 
Then came a blinding flash, then a very avalanche of 
thunder-billows, rattling like quickly-fired artillery, roar- 
ing like huge, breaking waves upon an ocean-shore ; the 
wild wind swept through the nave, and, lo ! in an instant 
all was still, and there in the midst of the terrified throng 
stood the old knight, his armor red with glowing fire, 
his head bowed toward the ground. No one moved; 
no one had strength or courage to run. The very men 
who over their ale had sworn that they had seen him 
time and time again were startled and stunned at the ap- 
parition. They looked with awe akin to horror, and some 
devoutly hoped that as a result of England's sin the 
power of controlling demons and spirits was not taken 
away from the ministers of grace. 

At last the old knight spoke : 

" What would ye with me ? Why have ye disturbed 
my rest ?" 

" Because," said one standing close by, " thou canst 
not sleep in peace." 

" Hath England peace ?" asked the knight. 

" It hath," the man replied. " The king's son sits on 
royal Charles's throne; the Church hath her own again, 
and loyal men till the land as in the old time." 

"'Tis well," responded the knight. "Then why 
trouble ye me?" 

" We fear to see thee in the dismal shadows," another 
said ; " we dread to have one with us who belongs to 
another world." 

" Thou thinkest I am worse than ye ?" said the old 
knight, with a scornful laugh which seemed to drive life 



294 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

itself out of some hearts. " I go to church as often as 
any here." 

" That dost thou, sir," the bishop exclaimed, jubilantly, 
" but thou leavest thy heart at home." 

This rejoinder was unanswerable, for everybody knows 
that a ghost does not take his heart about with him. The 
knight was therefore in the power of the bishop, and by 
the law which obtains in such matters was bound to re- 
main wherever he was laid. As a rule, spirits thus sub- 
dued were consigned to the depths of the Red Sea, 
where Pharaoh and his host abide in everlasting bond- 
age ; but sometimes the wishes of the ghost were con- 
sidered, and he was allowed to choose a place for him- 
self. Frequently the ghost would select his resting-spot 
among the roots of an apple tree or under a gate-post or 
a front doorstep, or near a spring of water, or in some 
other strange and unexpected position ; from which we 
gather that ghosts were facetious as well as troublesome. 
The old knight saw his mistake, and bowed in token of 
submission. 

"Where wilt thou that we lay thee?" asked the 
bishop. 

" Give me thy blessing, reverend lord, and I will go 
in peace," the knight replied. 

The blessing was given; the people looked to the 
spirit, and as they looked it vanished from their 
sight. From that hour one soul at least remained at 
rest. Nobody ever saw or heard the knight of Edge- 
hill again, and doubtless he has long since passed into 
regions far from this of ours. 

I remember how anxiously the ancient gentleman who 
told me this story sought to impress me with its truth. 



TO EDGE HILL. 2$$ 

Whether it were in the summer afternoon as we sat to- 
gether on the wooden bench under the box tree in his 
garden, or in the winter evening around his fire before 
the candles were lighted, he would always add, by way 
of finally disposing of any possible doubt, 

" There is Edgehill, and there was a battle ; and what 
more can any reasonable man need ?" 

But time passes, and I have yet miles to go before my 
day's jaunt is over. From the spot where I have rested 
for the last half hour to the Tower is only a few min- 
utes' walk. This building, erected about the middle of 
the last century, marks the place where the royal stand- 
ard stood on the day of battle. It is a sham ruin, and 
as a sham ought to have no place in either heaven or 
earth. The view from its walls is splendid, and, as it is 
a public-house, refreshments as well as relics can be ob- 
tained there. As I got over the stile from the bridle- 
path into the road I asked a man who stood leaning 
against a gate if the place had any other name than that 
of the " Tower." He looked at me with grave stupidity; 
I repeated my question. A woman looked out of a cot- 
tage door close by, and said " Old Israel's deaf, sir." 
But even she was not able to give me any information. 

I wandered on along the hot and dusty highway, the 
very road on which the king's army marched in the dusk 
of that October morning. On the way to Warmington, 
close by, are the remains of a veritable British camp. 
Here one may stop and picture the scenes, not of two 
hundred years since, but of two thousand. In those re- 
mote ages the land was a wilderness and its inhabitants 
were fierce, savage and heathen. With bow and sharp 
stone-headed arrows, and javelin, axe and club, they 



296 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

hunted the beasts of the forest or lay in wait for and 
struggled with their human foes. I fancy I can see them 
moving stealthily along through the tall grass and watch- 
ing me with wild, restless eye from yonder bushy hedge, 
ready to spring upon me as I stand here. This was 
their village-home — a place of huts or wigwams made 
of poles and wattled work and thatched with rushes or 
covered with sods. A hole in the side of the simple 
structure served both as a chimney for the smoke and as 
a door for the inmates. Around were rough palisades 
and high earth-banks. The valle and the fosse of this 
camp still remain. In this open space the thick-limbed 
and skin-clad warriors, fearless of death and cruel as the 
wolves in the jungle-like woodland, listened to the de- 
cisions of their chief and prepared for battle. Their 
women, more degraded, worse clothed and dirtier than 
themselves, stood by to urge them on to deeds of blood. 
Doubtless the unkempt, brown-skinned boys searched 
the hillside hereabouts for nests in the spring and nuts 
in the autumn, and learned, as savages learn, by expo- 
sure and trial, the skill and the habits of their fathers. 
The soil, badly tilled, supplied the family with a few 
roots ; cows and goats, half tamed and thriving poorly 
in captivity, gave them milk, and the forest furnished 
them with fuel. The only thing natural to us about the 
hut or the camp would be the cat. Puss was there, as 
happy and contented as she was among the Egyptians 
two thousand years earlier, and as she is amongst us to- 
day. This ancient camp was admirably chosen for mil- 
itary purposes, and, situated, as it is, at the extreme 
point of Edgehill, commands a wide stretch of coun- 
try. Now, even as the bell-tones gently wafted from 



TO EDGEHILL. 297 

some village church near by proclaim that the cross has 
triumphed over the old heathendom, so the soft green 
robe which Nature has cast over the place declares that 
the hidden past has been forgiven and that peace reigns. 

The road down the hill to Kineton is steep, and by a 
notice on a board at the top bicyclers are informed that 
it is dangerous. In the way I meet a heavily-laden 
wagon slowly coming up the hill. What ponderous 
wheels ! and what mighty horses ! The driver is clad 
in corduroys and smock-frock, with thick hob-nailed 
boots on his feet and a great wide-awake on his head. 
His hair is lank and long and his stubbled beard has 
not been cut for some time. He walks beside the team, 
his bending shoulders suggesting hard work rather than 
age, and the loud smack of his whip, with his " Coom 
hup, nu !" and his whistle, indicating both vigor and in- 
terest in his work. The broiling sun pours fiercely 
down upon him, but no sun could make him browner 
than he is or cause the perspiration to drop more freely 
from his face. When I pass him, he stops his wagon, 
getting a huge stone from the roadside to put under one 
of the hind wheels, and asks the time of day. It is past 
one. How far to Kineton? Three miles and a half 
from the Tower — the best part of three miles from 
here. 

"Dear me!" I say, "and along that dry, unshaded 
road ! It's enough to roast one, such a day as this." 

" Us must expect 'ot waythur this tiime o' yaare," he 
replies, philosophically, and leisurely wiping his face with 
his large white-spotted red handkerchief. 

"It's a hard pull for your horses up this hill," I 
remark. 



298 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

" Them dunna miind it ; uld Beetty aar ah goood un 
to goo, and Buuttarcoop ahn't ah bad un. And gooin' 
hup ahnt as bad as gooin' doon. Gooin' doon 'ill aar 
alius bad. Ah mon mah breeak 'is neeck gooin' doon 
'ill, an' theen 'ee's dun fur." 

I move on. Then I hear the " Gee hup, uld gaal," 
" Pool awah theer, maw luve," and the harness cracks 
and the wagon creaks, and on the heavy load goes round 
the turn in the highway and up the hill. It is not only 
in the moral sense that going down hill is bad — which 
sense the driver's words naturally suggested — but it is 
also bad physically. Try it in the blazing sunshine after 
a walk of ten miles, for the most part across soft mead- 
ows and through shaded woods. The hands become 
swollen, the legs get stiff and the feet feel as if they 
were going through the toes of the shoes. This was the 
most uncomfortable bit in my day's journey, but then 
pleasures must be expected to have their correlative 
pains, and what is a wearisome tramp of a mile or two, 
even down hill and along a sunburnt road, to compare 
with the delights of a stroll through the country-side ? 
Besides, Providence is generally kind under such cir- 
cumstances : some vehicle drives up with the horse's 
head in the right direction, and the cheery welcome to a 
lift makes one forget the heat and the toil. Here is my 
chance coming — a chaise with an elderly gentleman, fat, 
and therefore good-natured. Is he going far my way ? 
I have not time to ask, for he stops his pony and in- 
quires if I am going to Kineton. The very place, and 
off we drive together. He is from Banbury. Do I 
know Banbury? Rather: I ate Banbury cakes at the 
time I began to ride to Banbury Cross. It is a prosper- 



TO EDGE HILL. 299 

ous town, but in old days it was awfully Puritan. The 
story goes that a man there of that persuasion once 
hanged his cat on Monday for killing a mouse on Sun- 
day. The church has no steeple, but the cheese has a 
reputation centuries old; Camden implies that it was 
good, but Shakespeare makes Bardolph speak of it as 
though it were thin and soft. No ; I shall not be able 
to visit the place this time. I know something of its 
history : the elderly gentleman is disposed to antiquity 
as well as to adiposity. There was once a battle fought 
there in early Saxon times — that of the Wessex men 
against the Britons — about a. d. 550? Yes. So some 
have said, but it was in Wiltshire, and not here — at By- 
ran-byrig, and not at Banes-byrig. I know nothing about 
that, but I am right in charging the Parliamentarians 
with pulling down the ancient castle after the royalists 
had held it under siege for three months, and before 
they surrendered were reduced to such straits that they 
ate up all their horses but two. People drive in for 
miles to the fair, where, among other things, they get 
some of the best beef and the strongest ale in the 
country and see the biggest woman in the world and 
the only original Tom Thumb. The latter individual 
seems to be ubiquitous and sempiternal. I have seen 
the " only original " in my day on both sides of the At- 
lantic ; old folks have told me that they saw him three- 
quarters of a century earlier than I did ; a ballad of the 
reign of Charles I. speaks of him as a hero of King Ar- 
thur's time, when he was swallowed by a cow, tumbled 
into a pudding, and was finally eaten by a giant ; a village 
in Rutlandshire claims to be his birthplace and declares 
that he was served up in a royal pie ; and lastly the folk- 



300 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

lorists come in and say that the whole story is a myth 
of Northern origin. Any way, they had the little fellow 
at Banbury Fair — had him for years — and the farmers 
and the gamekeepers, dressed up in their Sunday vel- 
veteen, and the laborers and the laborers' wives, and 
young men and young women, also dressed up in their 
best, used to look upon him with the greatest interest 
and believe all that the showman said concerning him. 

So, chatting merrily about one thing and another, we 
jogged along the road to Kineton. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

©ber tfje (ttrmntrg. 

" And the summer day ended, for late or long 
Every day weareth to evensong." 

We found the little old-fashioned place all astir. It was 
the day of the annual flower-show, and the streets were 
gay with flags and noisy with the rattling of traps and 
wagonettes over the pebbles and the chattering of vis- 
itors from the neighboring towns and villages. There is 
not, as a rule, much excitement in such secluded dis- 
tricts, but the people somehow or other manage to 
make the most of life and to enjoy themselves. The 
"Swan" was filled with guests; the stables were crowded 
with horses and the tap-room was crammed with holi- 
day-making and beer-drinking swains. Boniface — good- 
tempered, sleek, shrewd Boniface — was bustling about 
and making strenuous efforts to supply, and no doubt 
to suggest, the wants of his customers. On one side of 
the gateway was a little window or wicket through 
which the crowd who could not get indoors or who 
preferred the fresh air obtained a continual stream of 
brown mugs filled with foaming ale. Sounds of loud 
merriment, the scraping of a violin and fragments of a 
rude song came through the open casement with the red 
curtains and the brass bars. Here is a boy with a pint- 

301 



302 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

pot in one hand and in the other a black clay pipe filled 
with the vilest-smelling tobacco trying to emulate the 
older ones around him, but the older ones say he ought 
to be thrashed and sent home to bed ; so that he gets 
but poor encouragement. There, a half-drunken fellow 
kicks a poor cur out of his way, and the -wretched beast 
yelps and the jackdaw in the cage screams. All is bus- 
tle and confusion, and the signs are that both the devil 
and Boniface will make a successful day of it; which 
juxtaposition of the Prince of Darkness and a man 
duly licensed by law to make his living in this way by 
no means implies that there is a league between them or 
that the one is as bad as the other. As I see the people 
of the inn driving their business I think of that scene in 
Piers the Ploughman where Glutton, on the way to church, 
is stopped by the brewster, who upsets his good inten- 
tions with the allurements of good ale, "hote spices" 
and the company of such choice spirits as Watte the war- 
rener, Tymme the tinker and Hikke the hakeneyman. 

I am shown into the parlor, my stout kindly friend 
having left me to my own devices. The house is old, 
with the yard, stables and wagonsheds usually belonging 
to hostelries of the kind. Inside there are narrow pas- 
sages, winding stairs, dark recesses and rooms with low 
ceilings and mysterious-looking cupboards and closets. 
Care is needed lest one stumble over unexpected steps 
or old lumber partly hid in the prevailing gloom. In 
the room in which I find myself are a long table, a piano 
and some pictures on the wall of racehorses and stiff- 
looking houses. I ask for dinner, and the hostess, stout 
and mirthful — she seemed to be made of a smile from 
head to foot, a huge ripple — skilfully navigates me 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 303 

through dark and devious ways to a long room up 
stairs. Here she explains to me that the day is a bad 
one for a warm dinner, but she adds, pointing to the 
table spread down the middle of the room, that I can 
make a meal out of the cricket-club supper. Possibly. 
At one end of the table is a massive piece of boiled 
beef, at the other a gigantic ham, and at respectable in- 
tervals between poultry, pies, cheese, bread, etc. My 
dinner will not be missed. Having seated me in a chair, 
she puts into my hands implements in dimensions some- 
thing akin to a scythe and a pitchfork and bids me help 
myself to the beef or the ham. Then I am left alone — 
in that long room with that mighty dinner. Neither cat 
nor dog shares my solitude; I can eat and drink in 
peace. There is a horseshoe over the door ; evidently, 
the people believe in witches. I proceed with my col- 
lation and at the same time picture the scene which the 
room will present in the course of a few hours, when 
the hungry cricketers come in for their beef and beer. 
The twofold process refreshes me both in body and in 
mind. I throw myself back in the great arm-chair and 
half fancy I should like to be with the merry company. 
What speeches and what songs ! The din of applause, 
of thumping the table, clapping hands and stamping the 
floor, will be deafening. There will be jokes and stories 
which will bring out the side-splitting laugh and the 
vigorous " Hear ! hear !" And the fun will go on away 
into the night, till one and another will have slipped 
under the table or fallen over asleep or been led or 
wheeled off home. Then, about midnight — the magis- 
trates allowing an additional hour after the closing-time 
usual on ordinary occasions — Boniface will turn into the 
20 



304 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

street those who are left, extinguish the lights and lock 
the doors. 

I spring up from the chair and the dream, for I have 
no desire to pass through a metamorphosis of that kind, 
and after satisfying the host's very moderate charges I 
start out to see the town. There is some dispute as to 
the etymology of its name. Some say it was so called 
from its extensive market of kine ; others hold that it 
should be " King," and not " Kine," from the fact that 
here was formerly a royal palace or castle, and others, 
again, affirm that it was named after St. Keyne, the pat- 
ron-saint of wells in general, and of one near the site 
of this palace in particular. These conjectures suggest 
curious questions of the origin and the history of the 
town into which one may not safely enter ; only, as I 
walk slowly through the unpaved street, I fancy I see 
here an illustration of a " road-town." Many more such 
come to mind as I think of this one. The hamlets of 
Britain and of early England, as of all primitive coun- 
tries, were mostly independent and isolated settlements 
in the wilderness, perhaps on the banks of a brook, per- 
haps in the midst of a dense forest. A clearing was 
made and habitations simple in structure and few in 
number were built. As time went on and the village 
grew in size and importance communication with other 
places beyond what a mere footpath would afford became 
imperative, and highways were accordingly cut through 
the intervening region. The town thus preceded the 
road, but, the road being made, other towns would 
spring up at desirable points along its course, a string 
of cottages stretching for some distance on both sides. 
As these, in turn, increased in numbers and in conse- 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 305 

quence, other ways from neighboring hamlets would be 
made through the forest directly to them, and then the 
village would naturally extend itself along the new way. 
In these instances the road would precede the town. 

The church, yellow and ancient and of mingled Early 
English and Perpendicular work, with its " acre " of 
lichen-covered tombstones and grass-grown graves, 
stands in the midst of the place, and has a low square 
tower, a fine doorway and the Gfdgy of a priest. There 
are a few stone houses, some of them of considerable 
age and with their moulded windows, clustered chim- 
neys and heavy walls suggesting stories of days and 
people of whom one would fain know something. Far- 
ther on the way to Warwick, at the west end of the 
town, is the grammar-school, a modern and small insti- 
tution, at the front gate of which, his arms akimbo, was 
whistling lazily a small boy with red-brown face and 
trencher-cap. He hoped to go to the flower-show by 
and by — perhaps as soon as he got over the Pons 
Asinorum or the Passive Voice of rvnTco. I love boys 
— that is to say, boys that are boys and not your pre- 
cocious boy-men — and this little fellow appears to be 
after my own heart. Play cricket, pull an oar and ram- 
ble through the woods and by the brookside, my lad, as 
well as pore over Euclid and ^Esop, and you will make 
your way in the world. Boys are to be found every- 
where — good boys and bad boys — but there is no more 
beautiful sight under God's sun than the face of a pure, 
upright, soulful lad the blush of whose cheek sin has 
not touched and whose eye is bright with innocence and 
with unconscious courage. The boy bobs his head re- 
spectfully as I pass by, and I turn back to the side street 



306 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

leading to the Tysoe road, and soon come to the place 
of the day's festivities. 

Three thousand miles away and in the depth of a 
Western winter, the freezing wind sweeping wildly over 
the fields of stainless snow and through the bare trees, 
making the dreary, bitterly-cold night more than ever 
Arctic-like, that scene, among others, presents itself to 
my mind clearly and pleasantly. In a large field by the 
side of the road and under great widespreading trees were 
erected several tents and booths. Beyond, a gentle- 
man's house, with the rich velvety lawns set with shrub- 
bery and flower-plots so common in England, appeared 
in extremely pretty form. The place was gay with flags 
and with brightly-dressed swains and lasses. Boys and 
girls were playing here and there ; swings and merry- 
go-rounds were going; hucksters and toy-men were 
crying their wares ; from the steps of his wagon-house 
Cheap John was holding forth upon the merits of a 
twenty-four-bladed knife of the best Sheffield make, all 
for a shilling — warranted pure steel, or possibly he may 
have said pure of steel ; old folks were leaning against 
the gates or the fences gossiping, and a very good 
brass band discoursed pleasant music in short and suit- 
able fragments. The village was too small to attract a 
wild-beast show or even a miniature circus, and so were 
absent two of the greatest pleasures an English country 
crowd can have — viz., that of seeing the lions feed, and 
that of listening to the stale witticisms of the clown. 
Even the " Punch-and-Judy " man — the most popular 
dramatic performer in the British Isles — was not there. 

The people, however, were themselves an interesting 
study. Here was Long Tim, the sturdy wagoner, with 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 307 

his Sunday shoes, brown trousers, red vest and black 
coat — the coat much too short in the sleeves and too 
tight in the back — and with him were his good wife and 
seven of his boys and girls, the other three being left at 
home with " Granny." Never-sweat Dave strutted about 
with a bunch of ribbons tied in his beehive-shaped hat, 
and with an imitation silver chain with an imitation 
bunch of seals and keys adorning his once-white vest. 
He had a cane and kept his eye on Mollie, who in a 
group of giggling servant-girls was the most remark- 
able for the length of her nose and for the gay scarf 
across her shoulders. Several strangers with the grime 
of " Smoky Brum " inlaid in the lines of hands and 
face and under their finger-nails were entertaining 
Hodge and his friends with stories of the town and 
with jokes without any point. There was a delightful 
air of rustic simplicity about the whole thing, and 
one could well say with Thomson, 

" thus they rejoice, nor think 
That with to-morrow's sun their annual toil 
Begins again the never-ceasing round." 

The local gentry and the clergy intermingled with con- 
siderable freedom among the villagers, for, though the 
miserable democratic spirit of the age has crept like the 
sin-tempting serpent of old even into such Edens as 
this, men have not altogether forgotten that it is equal- 
ly an honor for man to respect his betters and to treat 
kindly his inferiors. Ruskin says somewhere — I think 
it is in his Stones of Venice — that the secret of the pres- 
ent social discontent lies in the workman having been 
reduced to a sort of machine set to reproduce a given 



308 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

copy exactly and without variation — possibly, for in- 
stance, to do nothing but make heads of pins or to do 
nothing but sharpen their points — and thus, all invention 
and consequent manliness having been destroyed, he 
takes no pleasure in his task, but labors mechanically 
and frets his soul against all who are not in the like 
state of slavery. Hence the centres of rebellion against 
society are to be found in manufacturing towns, in such 
as Birmingham, where both masters and men work like 
convicts in the galleys and drag through a monotony of 
existence fatal to all nobility of soul or health of mind. 
In the rural districts there is more variety of employ- 
ment, more personal interest demanded, and therefore 
more pleasure in the daily toil. That red-faced, thick- 
set fellow leaning over the mound — as they call a fence 
in this neighborhood — and listening to a dingy Black- 
Country man, will take a pride and a delight in shearing 
the sheep, ploughing the land and clipping the hedges. 
Possibly agitators have persuaded him that he is an ill- 
used animal, oppressed and wronged by those who are 
over him, but there is more change in his life, more op- 
portunity of ingenuity and invention, more enjoyment 
of rugged health and Nature's gifts, than fall to the lot 
of most men in a higher sphere of life. If I wanted to 
find real happiness, I should not go to the palaces of 
cedar or the homes of the city-people, but to the stall 
of the apple-woman or the cottage of the farm-laborer. 
Here I should not expect to find high intelligence or 
extensive learning, but I should find a fuller appre- 
ciation of the joys and the pleasures of this world, few 
though they might be, and an inspiriting looking forward 
to those of the world to come. The people walking 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 309 

about these grounds have in their faces that which in- 
dicates the possession of a happy soul. And doubtless, 
when the parson comes among them, he will add to their 
delight by his encouraging nod, his kindly word or his 
cheerful smile to one and another. 

In the tents are flowers worthy of this land of roses 
and dahlias, and vegetables vast in size and suggestive 
of epicurean joys. It is pleasing to see the interest every 
one in England takes in such things. Flowers grow 
there in such abundance and reach such perfection as to 
excite the surprise of the stranger. In the houses even 
of the lower classes some attempt is made at their culti- 
vation and display, and many a woman points with pride 
to a scented geranium or a pot of common musk. The 
country-side is filled with wild flowers ; the banks, with 
primroses and violets ; the hedges, with May-bloom and 
dog-roses ; and the meadows, with cowslips, buttercups 
and daisies. The peasantry are encouraged in their love 
for flowers by these local shows ; and, though some may 
think more of the possible prize than of either Nature 
or the beautiful, or aught else, yet the greater number 
have a genuine affection for and a justifiable pride in 
their gardens and the fruits thereof. See how carefully 
they watch the pet flower, the table of cut roses and 
dahlias, the box of mignonette and the vase of carna- 
tions, lest any profane hand should touch them and mar 
their loveliness or rob them of their fragrance ! How 
they watch the countenance of the visitor for some sign 
of approval, some lighting up of the face which will 
show his surprise at the perfect object before him ! Its 
color, form, size, nature, habits and history will be spoken 
of and told so soon as you venture to express an interest 



3IO THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

in it. The good man will tell you from where he got 
the seed or the slip, what kind of soil he put it in, how 
many times he nearly lost the fruit of his efforts through 
the frost, the excessive rain or the ubiquitous and mis- 
chievous boy, and his confidence that except in London 
itself nothing finer could be had in the land. Why Lon- 
don is excepted I do not know, unless it be for its vague- 
ness and mystery to country-people. His hope is now 
to get the first prize, and by and by to find a place in 
the squire's garden for his eldest son, who loves flowers 
with all his heart and can do a good day's work along- 
side of any lad of his own age in the village, and with as 
good a heart too. Few here have heard the legends of 
Narcissus and Hyacinthus as told by Ovid, or know that 
once the white rose tried to outrival the pure paleness of 
Sappho and blushed for every failure, hence the red; but 
their round faces broaden under the inspiration of the 
hour, and their affectionate interest creates a rude but 
genuine eloquence. 

The people are evidently here for more than seeing 
flowers and vegetables. They move about over the 
sward and under the trees in a sort of rhythmical meas- 
ure to the music of the band, or loll upon the grass in 
companies of twos and threes. Children toot with horns 
and play with whistles, and everybody is on pleasure 
bent. Fairs and wakes similar to this gathering have 
been held here for centuries, and ages back they who 
now sleep in the old churchyard up in the town took 
their part in them as gayly and as merrily as do the 
free-souled folk of to-day. Some of the young fellows 
will in the course of the afternoon handle a quoit or a 
bat, and later on the largest of the tents will be cleared for 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 3U 

a dance. Possibly one reason why there is not so much 
heartiness in the pastimes of this generation as there 
was in the sports of past ages lies in the rapid increase 
of population. A crowd up to a certain point is neces- 
sary ; beyond that it hinders genuine fun. A great mul- 
titude uncontrollable and made up largely of strangers, 
as great multitudes are, can be amused only as the spec- 
tator is amused : it cannot amuse itself in any true and 
thorough way. In a small place such as this the old- 
time conditions to some extent prevail, and, as the num- 
ber of people is not too great to prevent them from 
knowing one another or to dampen their feelings, each 
is necessary to the common games and sports, and each 
enters into them. For some time to come the effects of 
to-day will be felt in pleasant recollections, and probably, 
also, in unpleasant stiffnesses, bruises and headaches. 
But my time is short, and I am able only to take a 
walk and a look around, to speak to one or two and 
then hasten on my way. 

I continued my journey along the road toward Oxhill, 
a tiny village four miles from Kineton. For a good part 
of the way the road runs across open fields, here and 
there passing old farmhouses. These houses are built 
solidly of stone, the gable-end and blind-wall mostly to 
the road, and with bits of garden in the unused front yard 
and the court at the back. In the windows are flowers, 
and over the doorway jasmine and honeysuckle. It was 
pleasant to hear the cackling of poultry and the cooing 
of pigeons, nor did the watchdog lying grimly near the 
well scarcely prick up his ears at the sound of footsteps, 
though doubtless the first tread off the public path would 
have brought forth the warning bark. Nailed to one of 



312 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

the barns were dead weasels, stoats, rats and owls. At 
one gate a women with a sun-bonnet in her hand stood 
watching a boy holding a guinea-pig by a string tied to 
one of its legs. The little animal was not very lively, 
and nibbled at a cabbage-leaf as though it were tired of 
the warm sunshine, its master and everything else. The 
woman courtesied as I went by — possibly as much for 
want of knowing what else to do as for respect; the boy 
and the guinea-pig, not having either curiosity or rever- 
ence for the clergy, kept on with their several occupa- 
tions. 

Each of these solitary houses has its own history — 
possibly only the quiet, uneventful history common to 
such, yet one would give much to read the past of any 
habitation where man has dwelt, and to learn the pas- 
sions, the hopes and the achievements of those who have 
occupied or been associated with them. Every life is in- 
teresting, every building instructive. The strong walls, 
the heavy doors and the narrow mullioned windows tell 
of more than defence against the weather : in days not 
so long since a lonely farmhouse needed protection 
against the tramp and the robber, just as in remoter 
times it had to be guarded against thieves, who more 
by force than by subtility took possession of that which 
they desired. Some of these were built when the recol- 
lections were still rife of people not only spoiled of 
their goods, but also turned out of their houses, and fre- 
quently maltreated and brutally murdered. Now the 
queen's peace is kept from one end of the land to the 
other, and men can lie down in confidence and sleep in 
safety. There are no gallows by the wayside with felons 
hanging thereon to intimidate the evilly disposed and to 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 313 

frighten the superstitious; nevertheless, the law has a 
strong arm — stronger than the oak gate or the spiked 
palisade, and more to be dreaded for its moral than for 
its physical effects. The bushes and the flowers in the 
garden, and the pigs and the poultry, the calves and the 
ducks, in the yard, indicate restfulness and somehow or 
other suggest happiness. I stand and wonder if the 
people who live there unannoyed and unperplexed by 
much that worries — even as a savage dog worries the 
sheep — the souls of people in busier spheres are really 
content and joyful. At any rate, they have a better 
chance of being so; only, such virtues depend more 
upon the self than upon the surroundings. I walk 
slowly along and think it over, at the same time re- 
gretting that the " Elegy " has been quoted ad nauseam 
and that the season of blackberries is not yet. 

Many young people pass me on their way to the 
flower-show at Kineton, some walking and some driving. 
All are dressed in their best and their gayest, the taste 
for sober colors not having reached this neighborhood. 
It is a relief to see a man in something else than an un- 
dertaker's costume, even though he approach more 
nearly to Nature's tints and hues. The girls, with 
scarcely an exception, are fresh, rosy, plump and rugged, 
the pictures of sturdy health, but they are not, as a rule, 
more than good-looking. The refined, delicate sylph is 
rare in England ; the women are mostly of the tradi- 
tional apple-dumpling order. Dark hair seems to be 
more common nowadays than formerly, but some of 
these have the blue eyes and the flaxen hair said to indi- 
cate Saxon lineage, and some have locks worthy of the 
Virgin Queen herself. 



314 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

A mile and a half beyond Oxhill is Whatcote, a drowsy 
little place with a quaint old church. It is called " Qua- 
tercote " in Doomsday, and for some time owned as its 
lord the abbot of Westminster. In the church is a me- 
morial to a John Davenport who died in 1668, in the one 
hundred and first year of his age, after having been rec- 
tor of the parish for seventy years and six months. The 
shaft of the ancient cross in the churchyard is now sur- 
mounted with a sundial, which of itself in a twofold sense 
indicates a change of time. The bells in the tower are 
said to be ancient and worthy of notice. Most of the 
villages around are of Saxon — or, to speak more cor- 
rectly, of Early English — origin. The centuries have 
not disturbed them ; they slumber even in this age of 
rush and excitement. Once in a while a cottage is 
newly thatched and somebody buys a bedstead or a 
table, but little else occurs from one year's end to the 
other to disturb the minds of the people. In a very long 
time a funeral or a wedding happens — possibly an elec- 
tion or an auction ; and these are epochs from which 
events are dated — " Six years after Luke Lemons died " 
or " Four years after the fire," the fire having been the 
burning of two wheatricks and the roof of a barn. A 
stranger furnishes material for several hours' wondering 
gossip — who he is, whence he comes and whither he 
goes ; if he has high heels to his boots or a string to 
his hat ; what he is doing in these parts, and if he is 
likely to be anybody's relation. As he passes along the 
road the women run to the door or to the garden gate 
and look wistfully after him ; the old man shelling beans 
on the porch steps stops, rubs his eyes, lifts his hat and 
wipes his brow; and the children jump up from their 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 315 

play in the dust, and, while some stand nibbling the cor- 
ner of an apron or a pinafore, others run away and fetch 
mother to see the phenomenon. If you speak to any one, 
there is no sign in his face of the slightest interest in 
you ; walking on, you may see scarcely man or woman, 
but look back suddenly, and you catch sight of a dozen 
heads of all ages eagerly peeping round hedge-corners 
or out of doors and windows to watch you and, if possible, 
to solve your mystery. The children are rather shy than 
rude, and as likely as not are off like a shot the moment 
you stop to speak to them. Rosy, rough-haired, chubby 
youngsters, dirty, every one of them, with clean dirt, two 
of them with the whooping-cough and holding on to each 
other as they pass through one of its recurrent onsets, 
some making mud-pies and others with a piece of clothes- 
line harnessing three or four together as horses, — there 
they are ; well, the same as you may see anywhere any 
day. A lad of ten or twelve summers holding a handful 
of flowers and under his arm a huge cabbage stares at 
me with his mouth and eyes wide open. I am not sure 
whether he thinks I am a Dutchman or a goblin, but he 
looks as I have always understood cheese and beer are 
supposed to look at the former and wicked people at the 
latter. I ask him to give me of his roses ; he turns pale 
either with fright or with pleasure, but he picks out one 
of the finest and offers it me. I give him a penny ; what 
have I done ? He blushes, smiles, regards me with fa- 
vor and my gift with joy. Off run half a dozen boys 
and girls for flowers, and almost before I have gone as 
many yards one and another beg me to take them — on 
the same terms, of course. They do not know the tones 
and the ways of the London and Liverpool urchins — 



316 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

" Please, sir," " No, no, thank you I" — and I can tell by 
their faces that, whatever they may have thought of me 
before, they are now well satisfied that I am barbarous 
and stingy. That will not do ; a few coppers scattered 
amongst them, and I get three cheers. 

I went into the village inn and enjoyed a glass of gin- 
ger ale and a chat with the landlady. The house is 
called the " Royal Oak " — why, I do not know, unless, 
possibly, after the famous adventure of Charles II., for 
the great tree in front of the door is certainly an elm. 
Long, long ago an oak may have grown there, and pos- 
sibly a hostel has occupied the site for centuries ; at any 
rate, the building has the appearance of considerable age. 
The low black ceiling, the deep recesses in the windows 
and the fireplace, the wooden settles and the clean stone 
floor, create feelings almost of veneration. In old Eng- 
lish times, as there were occasionally female sheriffs and 
female churchwardens, so inns were frequently — perhaps 
mostly — kept by women, and even now in many such as 
this a wife or a widow holds the license and acts as host- 
ess. My hostess has little to say and does not know 
anything about the sign ; and when I tell her that inn- 
keepers used to put out of their door a bush to indicate 
that they had good wine — though " good wine needs no 
bush " — she looked at me very unbelievingly. Signs 
are, however, curious things, and I remember one of 
the " Gate " at Brailes — it may be still there, for aught 
I know — and on it were the lines, 

" This gate hangs high, And hinders none ; 

Refresh and pay, And travel on." 

Five o'clock ! I finish my ale and proceed. 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 317 

Outside of Whatcote I came up to a man driving a 
heavy cart laden with barrels and parcels. On my ask- 
ing him the way to Honington he invited me to ride 
with him on his wagon. I was glad to accept and to 
lodge my now wearied body on the head of a beer-cask. 
He was very talkative and opened up a long, unceasing 
harangue upon the troubles of the country, which 
seemed to consist solely of the unwise economy of 
some rich people who did not buy or rent the unused 
land of the neighborhood. Certainly there were many 
fields lying fallow by the way we drove. I suggested the 
competition of American grain. — " Not a bit of it, sir ! 
There's money enough to overcome that, and there's no 
land in all America to beat this for growing wheat." 

There are snake-tracks across the road; here and 
there is a cast-off shred of skin. We pass a man car- 
rying wild rabbits strung on a pole across his shoul- 
der ; and when I tell my garrulous friend of the last- 
century custom in Edinburgh of a man carrying a leg- 
of-mutton shank through the street and crying, " Twa 
dips and a wallop for a bawbee !" at which the gude- 
wives would bring their pails of boiling water and thus 
make broth, he laughed and said it was a better plan 
than that of people taking their dinner to the bake- 
house. The man would have given his head to have 
known who was the stranger by his side ; but, instead 
of that information, when we reached Honington I gave 
him fourpence. 

Honington is a pretty village near the Stour and a 
convenient distance from the Stratford and Shipston 
highway, hiding amongst the noblest of trees and pos- 
sessing an ancient lineage and a great antiquity. It has 



318 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

a church about two hundred years old and a plain brick 
mansion of the last-century style. It can scarcely be 
said to have a street, though the cottages are built in 
rows scattered around a space undefinable, partaking, as 
it does, of the nature of a square or a triangle and a 
lane. There are pleasant bits of lawn under the oaks 
or the elms which grow anywhere about the place and 
spread their mossy boughs over road, side-path, tiled or 
thatched house and barn, making a refreshing and snug 
woodland retreat. I saw no inn or tavern in the place ; 
perhaps a population of not more than two hundred 
souls, if as many, does not need any, though a char- 
ter of the reign of Henry III. allowed it the privilege 
on payment of an annual fee to the lord of the manor. 
This same charter, according to an abstract I find in one 
of the local papers, compelled the. tenants not only to 
pay rent, but also to perform sundry other duties. 
Thus on every alternate day between Midsummer and 
Michaelmas they were obliged to assist the lord on his 
estate, receiving as their reward one sheep, eight loaves 
of bread, a cheese and fourpence in money. During the 
harvest-time they had to bring into the manor-fields all 
the members of their family except their wives, and, as 
the place belonged to the monks of Coventry, they had 
to trudge at stated periods to that city, each tenant tak- 
ing with him four hens, one cock and five eggs as an 
offering to the Fathers. There is now no mill in the 
parish, but in the reign of the Conqueror there were 
four such conveniences. Dissenters are unknown, nor 
has the board school invaded the land. 

Farm-laborers are supposed to have risen in influence 
and in comfort during the past few years. They have 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 319 

the franchise and some of them read the weekly news- 
paper of the district as well as their Bibles ; indeed, 
many of them can discuss Mr. Gladstone as intelligently 
as they can discuss Nebuchadnezzar ; which is not saying 
much, only they have a lively appreciation of the fact 
that, as the Babylonish king once placed a good man 
in the den of lions, so the great Liberal chieftain has a 
weakness for doing the same thing — metaphorically, of 
course — with his political opponents. Large numbers of 
the younger men have gone to the cities and the colo- 
nies, and throughout the agricultural Midlands there has 
been on the whole a decrease in the population. But, 
notwithstanding all that has been said and done, Hodge 
is badly enough off. He still thinks himself lucky if he 
gets a piece of bacon once or twice a week, and beef — 
or "butcher's meat," as he calls it — as many times a 
month. However, though poor, he is not miserable. 

Turning into Fell Mill lane at Honington — the same 
way by which I started for my day's jaunt — I walked for 
some distance with one of his kind who was slowly 
wending his way home after his toil. A pious, God- 
fearing man I found him to be after a few minutes' con- 
versation, a little inclined to grumble, but not more so 
than the average Englishman. He was turning the 
meridian of life — a life which had been spent within a 
radius of a few miles, five at the outside, from where he 
lived. Once he had been to Stratford, nine miles off, but 
that was many years ago, when he was a young man 
and unmarried. He had heard of France, Russia and 
America : they were somewhere in this world, but where 
he did not know, for, as he put it, his " schooling " was 
neglected when he was a boy. As he passed from under 
21 



320 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

the care of the ancient dame who taught the children of 
the village their letters and figures when he was about 
nine years old, it was little wonder. At that tender age 
he was promoted to the duty of minding the geese or 
the sheep in the meadow-lane, and was occasionally al- 
lowed to lead the first horse at the plough, so that books 
were beyond him and the longest thing he had ever 
learned was the General Confession, which he could re- 
peat — as he did repeat it twice every Sunday of his life 
— without mistake, provided the parson had a clear 
voice. " As to my duty toward my neighbor," he said, 
a sad smile moving awkwardly over his tanned and 
thick-skinned face, " I never could manage that. My 
daughter Pollie can, though ; she's a fine girl and knows 
more than her father." Nevertheless, he had brought 
up a family of seven to fear God and honor the queen, 
and to brighten his declining years he had the satisfac- 
tion of a prospect of getting his son into the police-force 
and of receiving for his own ten hours' work the sum 
of one shilling and eightpence. To help his meagre in- 
come he was able once in a while to snare a rabbit — per- 
haps some nobler game, of which he said nothing, being 
a prudent as well as a good man — and to find some 
mushrooms in the meadows. His wife made wine out 
of elderberries and sloes, and in the winter his boys 
went hedging for sparrows, and frequently got enough 
to make a decent-sized pie or pudding. On the whole, 
to quote his own words, he had much to be thankful for 
and many a man was worse off than he. The farmers, 
for instance, had a hard time of it, for it was cheaper to 
import wheat than to grow it. I gave him double his 
day's wages, and, grasping his hard, rough hand, bade 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 32 1 

him godspeed and "Good-eve." My path lay across 
the fields, but before I passed through the gate I watched 
him plodding along the road toward Barcheston. A 
true child of God, with more peace in his heart than 
even kings possess ! 

Country-people are not all like this man in this re- 
spect; possibly there are none who snarl and quarrel 
with one another as much as they. The women particu- 
larly give a liberty to their tongues and use language 
not unworthy of the traditional Billingsgate. One does 
not wonder that the ducking-stool was freely used. 
Some seem to have no control over their violent tem- 
pers, and a termagant running on day after day becomes 
irritating sooner or later. Poor wretches ! who can tell 
the miseries of their past ? Now religion and law have 
bettered them, but the ages bequeathed to them a bur- 
den almost beyond the possibility of removing. Village 
life six hundred years ago has been described by mas- 
ters of social history, and it was a widely-different thing 
from village life of to-day. Then murders, suicides, rob- 
beries and crimes of all sorts were rife, and the people 
who slept at night in the clothes worn in the day and 
lived in dirt were morally wretched and depraved. There 
was law : criminals were hanged and torn to pieces by 
horses. " It is impossible for us," says a writer describ- 
ing a Norfolk village in 1285, "to realize the hideous 
ferocity of such a state of society as this. The women 
were as bad as the men — furious beldames, dangerous as 
wild beasts, without pity, without shame, without re- 
morse, and finding life so cheerless, so hopeless, so very, 
very dark and miserable, that when there was nothing to 
be gained by killing any one else they killed themselves." 



322 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

Thank God all this has changed ! but these same people 
of whom I speak, who let their passions run away with 
them, are their descendants, for there has been little mi- 
gration in the remote country districts. Rough times 
and rough punishments ! The stocks are still near the 
church gate at Tredington. Yonder son of the soil, 
now nearly out of my sight, with many defects and 
many weaknesses, is a new creation — nature brings lilies 
out of swamps and dunghills, and grace makes saints 
out of men — and in the transformation of which he is a 
type we may see the power of a pure Christianity. The 
old mediaevalism could not help such as he; only a 
religion which brought Christ directly to him and gave 
to his perishing soul the sustaining knowledge of God's 
love could make him happy and hopeful. There is no 
cross by the wayside at which he may kneel and repeat 
an " Ave," but as he turns his face toward the setting 
sun he will rejoice in the thought of the many mansions 
where he shall find a home when the tribulation of this 
life is overpast. 

The rights of footpaths are very jealously guarded. 
Some of these meadow-ways — such as the one I am 
now treading — are older than the neighboring roads; 
probably they are the tracks by which centuries ago 
the people found their way through the wilderness from 
settlement to settlement and from farm to farm. For 
any man, though he were lord of the manor, or even 
king of the realm, to attempt to close them from the 
public would be, as the old Greeks would have said, to 
catch the wind with a net or to write upon the surface 
of the sea. I have been told of a squire who tried it, 
and, instead of turning the people out of the paths in 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 323 

which their fathers had walked, by some mysterious 
operation or other his head was turned halfway round. 
When he was able to look straight behind him, he saw 
the evil of which he had been guilty, and, either from 
increased knowledge or from increased awkwardness, he 
repented, and the legend says he was immediately as 
though nothing had happened. The lesson is apparent, 
but possibly everybody does not know that caring for 
roads and paths was once regarded as a religious duty. 
The author of The Sick Man's Salve, a thoroughgoing 
English reformer, and chaplain to Archbishop Cranmer, 
enumerates, among the many virtues which justified him 
in thinking his "sick man" had made a Christian and 
godly end, that he had given freely to the repairing of 
highways. In one age people, when ill, vowed if they 
recovered to give their weight in wax to be consumed 
in tapers before the shrine of their patron-saint ; in an- 
other, they promised to give so much stone to the roads 
and so much wood to the foot-bridges of the parish. 
Too often in such cases, it is to be feared, the old adage 
was verified : 

" The devil was sick : 

The devil a monk would be ; 
The devil was well : 
The devil a monk was he." 

Anti-climaxes and oddities are frequent and help to 
brighten the daily round. The other day I saw a really 
comical situation. A woman was standing in a cottage 
doorway with a boy sitting on the ground a little dis- 
tance off; he was playing and she was singing the hymn, 
" Hark ! hark, my soul ! angelic songs are swelling." 



324 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

The boy did something just as she got to the line " An- 
gels sing on." She did not stop to finish it, but, break- 
ing off abruptly, she caught him by the hair and gave 
him a rapid succession of severe cuffs. He cried and 
screamed at the top of his voice ; she went back to her 
post and on with her song as though nothing had hap- 
pened : " Sing us sweet fragments." The boy did indeed 
sing lustily and with a good courage. 

There is Shipston over the brow of the hill, the set- 
ting sun just gilding the old church-tower with the rose- 
ate glory. All is still and restful — a lovely evening. 
No wonder men in all ages have been moved by Nature's 
charms, and especially by the splendor of the sunset. 
The crimson on the clouds and the purple of the shad- 
ows are inimitable, more wonderful than aught that the 
painter's brush can produce — more wonderful, because 
deeper and richer in hue, and, which no artist can ac- 
complish, moving, fading, brightening, changing and pre- 
senting shades full of living glory. How the old Greeks 
delighted in this calm, sweet hour — in fact, in everything 
of nature ! There was Athena, the queen of the air. 
She brought to man the sweet, pure winds of heaven 
and ruled over the gods of the flying clouds and the de- 
mons of the storm. She was beautiful and lovely, her 
robe the deep blue of the sky, sometimes set with the 
brilliant star-gems, sometimes fringed with the saffron of 
the sunrise, and in a moment such as this she seems to 
sit enthroned in her palace of magnificence, her crown a 
wreath of sunbeams, her face bright with the sweetness 
and the purity of the calm eventide light, and her hand 
uplifted to still the playful noise of nature, to cheer the 
tired world and to bless the expectant heart of man. 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 325 

What marvel if out of such scenes and times have 
emerged myths and legends — myths that have been 
dear through countless ages, sung in the nursery and 
unfolded in the college, and legends which seem so 
true and so real ! We, rude Northern people, as they 
of the warm meridiana regard us, have our sunset story 
— not, perhaps, so exquisite and delicate as those of 
Greek imaginings, for God made only one such people, 
but, after all, not unworthy of the common Aryan an- 
cestry. 

Let me sit in the fading sunlight on this stile and re- 
call the tradition of the noble Guy of Warwick. He, as 
all men know and have known from childhood, was a 
brave and renowned warrior, the hero of numberless 
battles and the darling knight of Christendom. With a 
fair maiden, Felice by name, the daughter of a great 
earl, he fell in love. She was, so runs the story, both 
beautiful and haughty — beautiful like some stately mar- 
ble shaft of perfect mould, haughty as the great gerfal- 
con which spurns the earth and towers up into the noon 
to look the burning sun in the face. When he told his 
heart's secret, she bade him go to the war-fields and 
prove there by deeds of prowess his right to be the peer 
of a high born-lady. . So he went far away and won for 
himself golden fame, and at last returned to claim as his 
own the lovely Felice. But ere the wedding-feast had 
ended, Guy's conscience was smitten with the thought 
that all his great achievements had been wrought to win 
a woman's love and not one deed had been done for God. 
Then he bade farewell to his weeping bride and sped 
away again to fight and to work for his Lord, and while 
he was doing doughty deeds in far-off lands she wore 



326 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

her widow's robe and wept for her brave knight. Years 
after he came back again to his own country, but he 
went not to his wife : he was content to see her as on 
deeds of mercy she daily passed the hermitage in the 
cliff where he took up his abode ; only, once, all travel- 
worn and with his pilgrim's staff in his hand, he went to 
her house for alms, and she took him in and washed his 
feet and ministered to him, and asked him if in his dis- 
tant journeyings he had seen her loving lord. Then 
many weeks went by, and he, feeling his end was near 
and he was about to go away for ever, sent his ring to 
Felice and bade her come to him. She knew the token 
and hastened to her long-mourned husband, but Guy 
could not speak ; so they wept in each other's arms, and 
she kissed him, and he died. And fifteen weary days she 
lingered sore in grief, and then God's angel came and 
gently closed her own tired eyes ; and both she and the 
lover of her youth were laid in the same grave — severed 
in life, but united in death. 

Perhaps the story has lost its popularity, but others 
have believed it besides the people of fair Warwickshire, 
and many still visit the cave in the rocks near the coun- 
try town where the hero died. Formerly a chantry was 
there, and in the chapel, where priests said daily solemn 
masses, was placed a statue of Sir Guy. In Chaucer's 
time the legend was sung, and some have thought it had 
its origin in that battle of Byran-byrig mentioned toward 
the end of my last chapter ; but, for all that, though it 
may be mingled with facts, associated and colored with 
historical events and personages, it is a nature-myth. 
The brave knight Guy is none other than the sun, which 
rejoiceth as a giant to run its course, which in the early 



OVER THE COUNTRY. 327 

morn leaves his young and lovely bride amid the rose- 
clouds of the Orient, the beauty and hopefulness of 
youth and new-found happiness, and, rising in the sky, 
wanders through trackless wilds, doing mighty things, 
till at last, weary and worn, he draws toward home 
again and lays him down to rest and die. Then sweet 
Felice comes — the clouds, rosy, creamy, maiden-blush — 
and she clasps him in a last embrace ere he passes away, 
and still hovers over his grave until her beauty also 
fades into the night. Thus the weary sun dying in the 
bosom of the tender clouds is a figure of the parting of 
true husband and wife. 

The twilight is coming on now, and soon the mists 
will creep up the meadows from the brook and the 
fairies begin their night revels. Cinderella belongs to 
hours nearer the morrow: the prince is the sun, the 
fairy the light, and she the dawn. The dress of ashen- 
gray is changed by the fairy into a robe of beautiful 
hues. The prince runs after her, but the beautiful maid- 
en leaves only one trace behind, the glass slipper — the 
crystal dewdrops. Even the other nursery legend, be- 
ginning with " Sing a song o'sixpence," admits of sim- 
ilar explanation. The four-and-twenty blackbirds are 
the four-and-twenty hours, and the pie that holds them 
is the underlying earth covered with the overarching 
sky. When the pie is opened — that is, when day breaks 
— the birds begin to sing. The king is the sun, and his 
counting out his money is the pouring out the golden 
sunshine ; while the queen is the moon and her trans- 
parent honey the moonlight. The maid hanging out 
the clothes is the rosy-fingered dawn, who, rising before 
the sun, hangs out the clouds across the sky. 



328 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

But I hasten into the quiet town, there to rest after 
my long journeying, and to thank God that he has given 
me a day of rare delight — one to be remembered grate- 
fully and fondly for years to come. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

" He picked the earliest Strawberries in Woods, 
The cluster' d Filberds, and the purple Grapes : 
He taught a prating Stare to speak my Name ; 
And when he found a Nest of Nightingales, 
Or callow Linnets, he would show 'em me, 
And let me take 'em out." 

Suffer a merry and homely legend illustrating some 
phases of life in these secluded country regions. 

Shadrack Abednego Pruce was an orphan — that is to 
say, his father and his mother were both dead. They 
died before Shadrack Abednego became an orphan, — 
and when they were buried, Shadrack Abednego planted 
a yew tree and a rose-bush on their grave, and said, " I 
am an orphan." He sat down on the grave and cried 
for nearly three minutes, and said, " I am an orphan." 
He walked up and down the churchyard, reading the 
inscriptions on the tombstones, peeping into the church, 
watching the rooks in the elm trees and muttering over 
and over again, " I am an orphan." He thought that 
meant something, and the words seemed to comfort his 
bereaved heart. Then he sat swinging on the gate that 
led into the meadow at the back of the church, and then 
he wept and thought, and " I am an orphan " came to 
his lips, and the rusty hinges creaked back, " Orphan ! 
orphan!" Then he went home to dinner. 

329 



330 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

This was just a week after the funeral of Shadrack's 
mother, and ten days after that of his father. In the 
house the pictures and the looking-glasses were still 
toward the wall, for old Susannah — she was Shadrack's 
aunt on his mother's side, and now his sole protector — 
was somewhat superstitious and did not wish to see in 
the mirror the face of her lately-deceased sister. 

" Not that I believe in such things," she said to the 
neighbors, " but there's no telling what might happen." 

" That's true, Aunt Susie," was the reply from every- 
body ; " it's always best to be on the safe side." 

So every picture, portrait and looking-glass in the 
house had its safe side turned to the public, and even 
the silver tea-pot on the cupboard had a cloth thrown 
over it, so that the dead should not be tempted to come 
again. 

The effect of this was that poor Shadrack Abednego 
had not been able to comb his hair properly for more 
than a week, and, as he had very long and very red hair, 
he did not look quite so neat as he should have done. 
Once he went out to the well and sought to see himself 
in its clear waters, but his aunt followed him and ex- 
pressed her horror at his audacity so vigorously that 
Shadrack thought it best not to hurt her feelings again. 
She even cried for nearly an hour at the bare thought 
that as likely as not before many days dear Shadrack 
would be lying beside his father and his mother. Then 
she looked at the sturdy, rugged urchin, and she dried 
her eyes with the corner of her gingham apron and of- 
fered to comb Shadrack's hair herself. But Shadrack 
was now sixteen years old and five feet seven inches 
high, and he boldly declared no woman — or man, either, 



A MERRY LEGEND. 33 1 

for that matter — should comb his hair ; upon which de- 
fiant rejection of her kind offer, Aunt Susannah dropped 
off into hysterics, and for twenty minutes her next door 
neighbor, who ran to her assistance when she heard her 
scream, thought it was doubtful if she would escape 
with her life. Hysterics, however, do not kill, and after 
copious doses of brandy and repeated applications of 
burning feathers to her nose and of cold water to the 
back of her neck she gradually recovered. Then the 
kind-hearted neighbor suggested that Shadrack should 
be severely punished, but Aunt Susannah said, " Poor 
boy ! he is an orphan ;" and she went back to her task 
of peeling potatoes for dinner. 

So on the day that Shadrack Abednego planted the 
bushes on his parents' grave his hair was, as the saying 
is, all sixes and sevens, his face had tear-tracks down his 
cheeks, his necktie was upside down, and he looked ex- 
actly what he called himself and everybody else called 
him — an orphan. Thus he sat down with Aunt Susan- 
nah at the table. He was both sad and hungry, and he 
ate away at the roast goose and boiled potatoes, and af- 
terward at the apple-dumplings, with all the delight and 
zest imaginable. As the half-grown girl who did the 
rough work about the house said, " Live folks must eat, 
and as long as Master Shadrack wanted a good dinner 
he should have it." She had ideas of her own about 
Master Shadrack, but, having once had her ears pinched 
for observing to Aunt Susannah that he was becoming 
a fine young man, she kept them to herself. Aunt Su- 
sannah wanted no nonsense over Shadrack Abednego. 
Least of all did she want anybody to fall in love with 
him. That had been the trouble with his mother — a 



332 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

girl that was worth her weight in gold till she got mar- 
ried, and then trouble began. No ; Shadrack should 
grow up like the great oak on the village green — grand 
in himself, noble in his solitude. But, for all that, the 
half-grown girl had her eye on Shadrack, and she 
longed for nothing so much as to comb out his radi- 
ant locks and wash his grief- and dirt-stained face and 
kiss his bright red lips. 

Shadrack ate his dinner ; then he drank half a mug 
of ale ; then he sat back and looked fondly and con- 
tentedly into Aunt Susannah's admiring face. 

" A nice goose, Aunt Susie," said he. 

" The best in the yard," she replied ; " the very one 
your dear father thought so much of." 

Poor Shadrack began to cry, and found it not so easy 
as it had been before dinner. 

" Don't cry, my orphan nevy — don't cry," said Aunt 
Susannah, sympathetically; tl people must die, and so 
must geese, but don't ee cry." 

" No, I won't," muttered Shadrack ; " but just to think 
how fond father was of this goose, how it would run 
after him and eat out of his hand, and now we have 
ate the goose!" 

" There's enough left for another dinner, Shaddy dear. 
So don't ee cry, but go out and see if the men are all 
right in the yard, and if the bay mare's colt is in the 
meadow. These are all your things now." 

" Yes, aunty, I am an orphan ;" and Shadrack Abed- 
nego went out to see if old Solomon, the unofficial but 
very officious overseer, was getting on well with the 
men and the things of the farm. 

Old Solomon was a childless widower. His better 



A MERRY LEGEND. 333 

half had been dead nearly sixteen years, and never but 
once in all that time had his heart been moved by emo- 
tions of love. Unfortunately, it had been so effectually 
moved that it quivered yet. He had worked on the 
farm from boyhood. When a stunted lad of thirteen, 
he had driven the horses at plough and helped hold the 
sheep at the shearing. He had grown up an able and 
a trusted laborer, had served as wagoner and as shep- 
herd, and now at the age of sixty he had without formal 
appointment dropped into the general management of 
the whole farm. Good wages and a free cottage, to say 
nothing of the possession of authority, made him a man 
of some importance — so much so that, next to the par- 
son and Shadrack's father, he was regarded as the great 
man of the parish. And from his exalted position old 
Solomon looked down upon one of his womanly ac- 
quaintances — one whom he had known from her cradle, 
one whom he had admired from her girlhood, and one 
whom he had loved from the day he laid his wife be- 
neath the sod. This acquaintance was none other than 
Miss Susannah, Shadrack's aunt, and now his mistress. 
Not that he had ever told his love ; it was his heart's 
delight and his heart's secret. 

" Does she take it very hard ?" asked old Sol when, 
on the afternoon of which we are speaking, Shadrack 
stood beside him watching the cows coming up for 
milking. 

" Who ?" asked Shadrack. 

" Miss Susannah," replied old Sol. 

" Rather," was the laconic reply. 

" Poor soul !" said old Sol ; " poor soul ! And hasn't 
she turned the looking-glass round yet?" 



334 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

" No." 

" Nor given the cat skim-milk instead of cream ?" 

" No ; she says the cat's heart needs comforting as 
much as anybody's." 

" Kind-hearted creature ! Isn't she a beauty ?" The 
first part of this observation applied to Miss Susannah ; 
the latter, to a remarkably fat cow passing at that mo- 
ment 

Shadrack thought both remarks applied to his aunt. 

" I say, Sol," he put in, " none of that !" 

"What?" in a tone of surprise. 

" Oh, you know well enough. I say none of that ; 
we have trouble enough." 

"I know it," said old Solomon; "but she would 
fetch a high price any time. I know a man who would 
give anything for such a beast." 

" Gently," said Shadrack ; " gently, old man. I tell 
thee I will hear none of that." 

" No, no !" continued Solomon, still thinking of the 
cow; "no, no! She's too rare a breed to part with. 
There's not such another brute in this parish, nor the 
next. So Mr. Philips said t'other day." 

" If you were not an old man, I'd pitch thee into 
yonder water ;" and Shadrack went off in great anger. 

" Impatient as his father," said the old man to himself 
as he turned down toward the barn. 

Into the house went Shadrack Abednego, and as soon 
as he found Aunt Susannah he began : 

" Aunt Susie, old Solomon has called you a beast !" 

"Ugh, the wretch!" and the words hissed through 
her teeth. 

" Yes, and he says you are a brute." 



a merr\ legend. 335 

" The scoundrel ! he shall go ! He shall leave the 
premises this very night! To think that your own 
mother's sister should be called a brute and a beast !" 
Aunt Susannah was too angry to cry. 

"But that isn't all of it," continued Shadrack : "he 
declares you are too rare a breed to part with, and that 
skinny Philips said so." 

" The villain ! the tramp ! the outcast ! the disgrace 
of his sex ! I'll prosecute him ! I'll have him sent to the 
assizes ! I'll — " and poor Aunt Susannah's rage stopped 
her words as well as her tears. Her face was white; 
her hands trembled ; her teeth were tightly set. There 
was silence ; then she said, " Tell me all about it, Shad- 
dy dear." 

" That's all," replied Shadrack — " though, to be sure, 
he did say you were a beauty." 

" Oh !" The tide began to turn, for her gray eyes, 
red hair, sharp nose and chin, high cheek-bones and 
angular figure made Aunt Susannah anything but a 
beauty. 

"And he also called you a kind-hearted creature." 

" Now, are you sure of that ?" very much mollified. 

" Yes, certain." 

" He's not such a bad fellow, after all," said she, 
musingly, as though speaking to herself. 

" What ! not when he called you a brute and a beast ?" 

"Well, Shaddy, you know that's the way of some 
men, especially of such as have to do much with cattle. 
In your dear father's eye a cow was the pink of perfec- 
tion. He used to call your mother ' Cowey,' and when- 
ever he saw anything that pleased him he would say, 
1 As fine as old Bess ;' that was the name of one of the 

22 



336 THE HEART OF MEEEIE ENGLAND. 

Durhams. Oh no, there's nothing at all in the words 
' brute ' and ' beast,' when you consider where they 
come from." 

"Well," exclaimed Shadrack, with the slightest pos- 
sible contempt in his voice — " well, aunty, you are, as he 
said himself, a poor soul !" 

" Humph ! he's quite tender-hearted," in the softest 
of tones. " Now go, Shaddy dear, and take a look 
around. See if you can find some bait for fishing, for 
you must try for a trout to-morrow." 

Shadrack stood thinking for a moment. He said 
nothing and went out. But he thought, " What's come 
over aunty now ? She's getting a better woman every 
day. To see how quickly she forgave the old scoundrel ! 
That comes of learning the parson's texts every Sunday. 
It takes all the spirit out of her, but it makes her good, 
fit to go to heaven, that's certain." He took his spade 
and went down to the willow trees by the pond to dig 
for grubs and worms. 

This was the burden of Aunt Susannah's soliloquy : 
" He says I am a kind-hearted creature ! Well, well ! 
That's what I call thoughtful and manly. Oh, I remem- 
ber when he was a spry young man and used to swing 
me under the apple tree. That's thirty-five years ago, 
now, I'll be bound. We have both changed since then. 
I would like to peep into the looking-glass, but that will 
never do. Only he's a good strong man yet — stronger 
than many a younger one. And folks said he was kind to 
his first wife and cried when he buried her. A faithful 
servant he's been. I always thought a deal of him. To 
think of the dear fellow calling me a brute and a beast ! 
That's just like a boy calling his sweetheart ' ducky ' and 



A MERRY LEGEND. 337 

' goosey,' only from a man ' brute ' and ' beast ' mean 
more. Well, well !" and Aunt Susannah began to won- 
der if the legend so ran that the mirrors should have 
their faces turned to the wall after the corpse left the 
house. " I thought it was fourteen days after the fu- 
neral," she said to herself, "but I may be mistaken." 
The more she thought of it, the more certain she was 
of her mistake. Then she remembered that when Re- 
becca Short died they put everything to rights the same 
day that she was buried. But when two died within a 
few days of each other? That was a problem, and 
Aunt Susannah began to get bewildered. " He said I 
was tender-hearted ; no, kind-hearted : that was his 
word. I don't think two deaths would make any dif- 
ference, and Shaddy's hair does want combing. I think 
I'll venture it. I do wish I had somebody to advise me 
what to do." She looked at the pictures and the mir- 
rors, so dismally displaced. She thought out every 
thought she had. She sighed till she suddenly remem- 
bered that sighs were dangerous, and cut so many hours 
off one's life, and then she stopped. Up and down the 
room she walked, out of the window she looked ; then 
she deliberately took the cover off the silver tea-pot. 
She seemed startled at her daring, but nothing hap- 
pened, so she turned first the picture of the old duke 
around, then that of his late Majesty, then that of a 
famous prize greyhound, and so on till all the pictures 
were in their proper position. She dusted each of them 
off, thinking rather more of old Solomon than of the risk 
she was running. Once the half-grown girl peeped in 
and exclaimed, 

" Laws, missis ! be'st thee not afraid ?" 



338 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

" Go and scrub out the pantry, you impertinent 
thing!" and Betsey departed. 

Nothing happened. Twenty minutes passed ; still no 
vision on any of the glittering surfaces. Then, with an 
air of desperate firmness, she turned around one of the 
mirrors. The first thing she saw in it was her own face, 
and she nearly fainted. She looked again. Her heart 
began to cease its fluttering. " He said I was pretty — a 
beauty. The glass shows I am passable. Humph! 
passable ! So Ezekiel said ; every man has passed me 
by. Still, many a high-born lady has red hair, so that's 
nothing ; and gray eyes : they are nothing. After all, 
it's handsome is that handsome does. To think that old 
Solomon called me beautiful ! What would Mary that's 
dead and buried say if she heard it? I'll knit him a 
pair of blue worsted stockings for winter, the good 
man !" and she continued admiring her charms, smooth- 
ing her hair and eyebrows, adjusting her dress and 
meditating upon the thoughtful and discerning kindness 
of old Solomon. 

Into the room walked Shadrack Abednego. His 
aunt was in too great an ecstasy to hear the sound of 
his footsteps. He watched her for an instant, then he 
exclaimed, 

" Aunt Susie, what have you done ? What have you 
done ? Don't you know I am an orphan ?" 

" Oh, Shadrack, how you frightened me !" cried Aunt 
Susannah, pale with fear and trembling with excitement. 
" You shouldn't come in so quiet as that. It's terrible 
to be startled so." 

"But why have you turned things around?" asked 
Shadrack. 



A MERRY LEGEND. 339 

" I was thinking of you, Shaddy dear. You do need 
washing up and combing so badly." 

" Dear, kind aunty !" said Shadrack, with undis- 
guised admiration. " You are always thinking of 
me. Just to think of your turning the glass for my 
sake ! Loving mother-aunt, let me kiss you." 

Aunt Susannah blushed — not at the kiss, but at the 
abuse of praise. She held her peace. 

Thus in the evening of the day our story begins this 
was the emotional state of the hearts belonging to the 
four individuals we have introduced: Shadrack loved 
his aunt for her devotion ; old Solomon felt tender 
toward Aunt Susannah because of her recent grief and 
his own inspiration ; Aunt Susannah admired herself 
more than ever, thought Shadrack was a good boy, and 
looked more kindly on old Solomon because he had dis- 
covered her charms ; Betsey, the half-grown girl, was 
simply and completely in love with Shadrack. 

When the shades of night overspread the land and 
crickets on the hearth and owls in the field kept watch, 
Shadrack and Solomon slept in peace. Aunt Susannah 
dreamed of the seven fat kine of Egypt and thought she 
was drowning in the Nile or the Red Sea, she was not 
sure which, when old Solomon — perhaps it was the 
Sphinx ; she could not say : therefore it was most likely 
Solomon — jumped in and saved her; whereupon the 
king of some place married her and she became a par- 
agon of loveliness. Poor Betsey tossed about in her 
trundle-bed for hours. She was happy and troubled. 
When first she got into the garret, she snuffed out the 
candle : that was a clear sign of matrimony. Then she 
lighted it again and stuck a pin through the wick, re- 



340 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

peating some mystic lines about piercing Shadrack's 
heart and his coming to her in spirit. She watched the 
candle burn below the pin ; it did not drop out, there- 
fore he would be sure to appear. To be doubly sure, 
she set her shoes under the bed in the form of a T, and, 
placing one stocking under the pillow and hanging the 
other over the foot of the bed, she knelt down to say 
her prayers. These were short and simple — "just the 
heads, you know," Betsey used to say ; for, poor girl ! 
by bedtime she was tired out. However, hours passed 
this night before she could get to sleep. She lay there 
thinking and building castles in the air, hoping it might 
be her lot to be a Cinderella and marry the prince Shad- 
rack Abednego. When she felt her foot, though, she 
was pretty sure, if it were a very, very small slipper, 
she would never get it on ; so she let Cinderella go and 
thought of herself as a female Dick Whittington, only 
Shadrack was her London and she had no cat. Any 
way, she got Shadrack — that is to say, in her fancy — 
and she was married in fine style and had a half-grown 
girl to wash the dishes and mind the baby. Then she 
dropped asleep, but no Shadrack came; not even a 
dream of Shadrack crossed her mind. She slept till the 
gray dawn appeared, and then she got up disappointed 
and less hopeful, but comforting herself with the 
thought, " Poor fellow ! he's an orphan — he's an orphan. 
And an orphan is an exception to all rules." 

Now, it came to pass some few days after this that the 
village parson called upon Aunt Susannah and Shadrack 
Abednego to condole with them upon their bereave- 
ment. He had been expected, so Shadrack's hair had 
been cut; and when the parson arrived, the orphan 



A MERRY LEGEND. 34 1 

looked a bright and presentable youth. His new mourn- 
ing-suit fitted him neatly and greatly enhanced his ap- 
pearance. His aunt was also looking her very best. 

The clergyman was good and kind, as all clergymen 
are. He brought them his warmest sympathy, which 
they had looked for ; he brought them something else, 
which they had not looked for. 

This something else was a young girl of sixteen sum- 
mers — his own daughter, Myrtle Muriel, a blithe, win- 
some maiden with long dark hair, brown eyes, rosy 
cheeks and pearly teeth. She was a fairy such as 
Shadrack had never seen before. He thought her 
wonderful, and blushed bright scarlet every time she 
spoke to him, and glowed with excitement every time 
she looked at him. His aunt listened attentively to the 
kind parson, and at the same time watched her nephew 
and thought of the noble oak on the village green. 
Myrtle was at one moment running over a list of 
French adjectives, the next composing a letter in her 
mind to her dear friend and schoolmate Valentine 
Louise Teeson, then watching the poultry in the yard, 
and thus running through things congruous and things 
incongruous, and thinking no more of Shadrack than 
she did of the mummy in the Shortstown museum. 
She asked Shadrack if he thought the brook had as 
many fish in it as in days gone by, and it was as much 
as he could do to gulp down his heart in order to tell 
her that possibly there were less. Her sweet voice 
seemed to fascinate him. He never felt so happy be- 
fore in his life. He even thought it was a good thing 
to be an orphan, so as to bring the parson and his 
daughter to the house. 



342 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

When they left, Shadrack was another being. He 
watched her pretty figure down the lane till she was 
out of sight. That night he asked Betsey to tell him 
the words of a certain incantation to be uttered over a 
cup of cowslip wine, which she, taking this to be a sign 
that her love-charms were working upon him and that 
ere long he would be hers, did with pleasure. The ob- 
ject, of course, was to enable him by a dream to foresee 
the joy that awaited him. Carefully did he go through 
the prescribed formula and drink the enchanted wine ; 
then he lay down to sleep, and in his sleep the vision 
of glory came. He thought that he was standing be- 
fore the altar at the hour of daybreak. The surpliced 
priest was there ; the red sunlight fell upon the com- 
pany and made the church strangely beautiful and 
strangely weird. The great edifice was still and empty ; 
only here in the chancel were the friends and neighbors 
of the bridal-pair. By his side was the lovely Myrtle, 
crowned with the orange-wreath and robed in satin- 
cream. Her face was more than beautiful, it was more 
than earthly. He looked into her eyes, and there he 
saw himself and love. He touched her hand, and af- 
fection like an electric current ran from heart to heart. 
The vows were made, the solemn words were spoken, 
and then he and his bride turned away, and the radiance 
of the early morn followed them down the nave out into 
the great world of sunshine. Oh how dazzling ! oh how 
bewildering ! Shadrack watched himself and Myrtle till 
it seemed that they had vanished in the later meridian 
splendor. 

" Oh, it was beautiful," said Shadrack to Betsey in 
the morning as he met her at the dairy door. 



A MERRY LEGEND. 343 

Betsey colored and said, 

"Did 'ee see her?" 

" Yes ; she was lovely, a bonny bride — something 
like Queen Esther, you know, and ten thousand times 
sweeter than any other maiden I have seen." 

" What did she wear?" asked Betsey. 

" I am not sure — I saw only her eyes — but I think she 
wore a garland of daisies and a pink-colored dress." 

" What eyes had she ?" inquired Betsey. 

" That, again, I don't remember. They were beauti- 
ful — full of love ; not dreamy, but bright ; a sort of — 
But there ! I can't say. But she was splendid, that's 
certain. To see her in the sunlight you'd have thought 
her a what-d'ye-call-it come down from heaven. Oh, 
Betsey, if I could have gone with her ! I thought, 
when I saw her fade into the sunbeams, that she disap- 
peared as a lark vanishes in the bright sky. I don't 
know, but — " 

Just at that moment Aunt Susannah, who kept a strict 
watch over the half-grown girl and ever associated Shad- 
rack and the lone, lorn oak together, appeared on the 
scene. 

" Bet, you good-for-nothing girl," she cried, "back to 
your work ! and you, Shad, be off! Wasting time like 
this first thing in the morning ! I'll give the both of 
you a trouncing !" and into the dairy Betsey went, say-* 
ing to herself " I'm the bride, that's certain ; I'm the 
bride." And Shadrack went down to the orchard and 
exclaimed, " What a bride she was ! Oh what a 
bride !" 

Time passed by and the autumn came, and one day, 



344 TH & HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

when the leaves were falling fast, old Solomon made up 
his mind that he would tell his love to Aunt Susannah. 
He fancied that for some months past she had treated 
him in an unusually civil manner. She had inquired 
about his health and had given him some roasted Jerusa- 
lem artichokes — a mark of special favor, for Jerusalem 
artichokes were her delight. Therefore it was that one 
afternoon when going his rounds through the neighbor- 
ing wood he became sentimental. The trees stripped of 
their foliage, the wind whistling through the bare branches, 
the soddened ground and swollen streamlets and the 
dying sunlight, brought into his tender heart that sweet 
melancholia which inspires and encourages love. He 
had been in full possession of that sublime emotion for 
years ; but when he saw the naked boughs, and especially 
the white trunks, of the birch trees, he felt the emotion 
was getting too great for him. His heart was too small 
for it. Something must be done, or the emotion in 
his breast would burst forth in volcanic earthquakes 
and eruptions. 

" Oh, Susannah," he exclaimed as he sat down on the 
stile — " oh, Susannah, I must have thee ! — Lord, thy will 
be done, but oh, give me Susannah ! She is the best 
hand I know of to make onion-gruel ; and onion-gruel 
of a cold winter night is not so bad. I used to take it 
when I was a boy, thickened with oatmeal and seasoned 
with sage and thyme chopped up small. The old woman 
used to say it was good for chills and cramps, and in bad 
weather I had one or other 'most every night, the gruel 
was so good. Howsoever, Susannah is tiptop at that. 
She knows how to work and make a man comfortable, 
and that's everything. She's got money, too, and that's 



A MERRY LEGEND. 345 

more than everything. She's not proud, so that marry- 
ing a poor man would be no come-down to her. Not 
that I am so poor, after all. I have three hundred pounds 
in the three per cents., sixty pounds in the bank, two 
suits of Sunday clothes and a good houseful of furniture. 
I'll ax her— yes, this very night I'll ax her. She can say 
only one thing or t'other ; and if I don't ax her she'll 
say neither. So I'll go home and dress up in my Sun- 
day best and face Susannah this blessed night. God 
knows I am a pretty good sort of fellow, and all I want 
now is Susannah ;" and old Solomon got off the stile 
and hurried home as fast as he could, so that he might 
see the object of his affections as soon as possible. Into 
his Sunday habiliments he carefully deposited himself— 
that is to say, he dressed himself for the occasion. Then 
he ate a good supper, for, as experience teaches, sweet- 
hearting upon an empty stomach is not what it might be. 
He also drank a quart of real home-brewed — a virtuous 
proceeding characteristic of our fathers and strongly 
helpful to sentimentalism. Into his buttonhole he stuck 
a scarlet geranium-flower, and in his coat-pocket he car- 
ried a bunch of lavender. The moon was coming up 
when he started for the farm, about half a mile away. A 
clear sky seemed a propitious omen, and the recollection 
that Aunt Susannah had smiled at him a fortnight since 
was further cause for encouragement. 

Neither Shadrack nor Betsey thought anything of 
Solomon's asking to see Aunt Susannah alone, for he 
often consulted her upon matters connected with the 
farm. Even his Sunday-like appearance did not surprise 
them, seeing that a fair was then going on in a neighbor- 
ing town and he might have been there for the afternoon. 



346 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

So they went out of the room, leaving Solomon and Su- 
sannah together. 

" Miss Susannah," he began, " I believe I am an old 
fool." 

" Lawk a daisy, Solomon ! you are not the only 
one." 

" Well, I am the biggest one, any way." 

" I don't know that," replied Susannah, after a thought- 
ful pause ; " I don't know that. There's no man around 
here knows a horse better than you do, and, as to a 
manager, you couldn't be better." 

" Perhaps not. But do you know, Susannah — I mean 
Miss Susannah — I think a sight of you ?" 

" And I'm sure you are not a fool for that," said she, 
slightly blushing. 

" But I think you are a seraph or a sylph, and that's 
going a long way." 

" But there's nothing foolish about it," she replied, 
softly and coyly. " Only, what is a sylph ?" 

" It's a sort of cypher, I believe ; I saw it in the news- 
paper the other day. You go on adding up and adding 
up a person's good qualities, and that is called sylpher- 
ing or cyphering." 

" Oh yes, I see, but I didn't know that my good quali- 
ties would make up a sum." 

" There's not an angel in heaven to compare with you, 
and, for that matter, nor in the earth beneath, nor in the 
water under the earth." 

" You don't mean that ?" and Aunt Susannah thought 
her heart beat faster than ever before. 

" Don't I ?" exclaimed the enraptured Solomon. 
14 Don't I ? I tell thee I am a man, and I know what 



A MERRY LEGEND. 347 

a woman is. There's not another such. Why, you 
know old Matilda Cumstock ?" 

Susannah nodded assent and turned up her nose 
slightly. 

"Well, she thinks she is the skim-milk of perfection." 

" The upstart !" muttered Susannah. 

" She can spin." 

" So can I." 

" She can milk a cow." 

" So can I." 

"She can knit."" 

"So can I." 

" She can read the Bible from beginning to end." 

" So can I." 

" There's nothing she can't do." 

" She can't beat me," said Susannah, firmly and de- 
fiantly. 

" No, and therefore I say you are ahead of her. 
Lord ! you are ahead of all the Cumstocks in the world. 
Your Jerusalem artichokes are not to be equalled any- 
where. If ever woman was born to make a man happy, 
you are the one." 

" You are the first one that ever told me so," said the 
delighted Susannah ; and she applied her pocket-hand- 
kerchief to her eyes and her bottle of smelling-salts to 
her nose, not being quite sure whether it would be more 
becoming and grateful to cry or to faint. 

" Ah ! there are few men outside of heaven," contin- 
ued Solomon, " who know the fine points of female cha- 
racter and beauty as well as I do. I have not lived for 
sixty years with my eyes in my head and not learned 
something." 



348 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

" I know it," replied Susannah ; and tear number one 
hung like a dewdrop upon her left eyelashes and glit- 
tered in the candlelight. Solomon thought he had never 
seen anything so lovely. 

There was silence. Shadrack and Betsey were in the 
kitchen together devising charms and telling ghost- 
stories. The room was chilly ; Solomon laid a fresh log 
on the dying embers. Then he returned to his chair 
and accidentally pushed it a yard nearer to Susannah. 
Tear number one trickled down her cheek, and tear num- 
ber two started from her right eye. She had resolved 
not to faint. 

There was silence for five minutes. Solomon and Su- 
sannah were both thinking. The candle needed snuffing. 
Solomon snuffed it, and somehow or other, before he 
had again taken his seat, his chair got within a foot of 
that of Susannah. 

" I tell thee, Miss Susannah," he said, with a profound 
sigh — " I tell thee it is nice in old age to have somebody 
to lean upon, somebody to comfort you. I am not an 
old man, nor are you an old woman — " 

" Only forty-nine," put in Susannah. 

" Forty-nine's nothing. You look as fresh as a wench 
of twenty. Still, it is nice to have one near to you to 
make you happy and protect your rights. As my old 
woman used to say to me, ' Solomon, you are the boy to 
make a wife contented ;' and so I was, and am yet. I 
never swore at a woman in my life, and couldn't ; nobody 
else would that called himself a man. As the parson 
says, ' Swearing lips are a' something — I forget the word 
— ' to the Lord.' But don't you think, Miss Susannah, 
it is pretty to see the ivy twined around the oak, the 



A MERRY LEGEND. 349 

vine climbing on the wall and the sweet peas and kid- 
ney-beans growing up the poles ?" 

" It's a beautiful symbol of affection, Solomon. It's 
as beautiful as a rainbow resting on a cloud." 

" That's what I say. Miss Susannah " — his chair was 
close to her now — " you have learning ; you know what's 
what. Now, let my shoulder be the cloud and your little 
head the rainbow ;" and he slipped his arm along the 
back of Susannah's chair, and in another moment the 
red tresses were lying in blissful repose against his 
stalwart side. 

There was silence. The log on the fire hissed and 
blazed. Solomon looked into the fire ; Susannah looked 
down the years. 

" Do you know," said Solomon at last, " that I love 
you — love you with all my heart?" 

" You don't mean it," replied Susannah ; " you men 
say such things without thinking about it." 

" Did ever any man say that to you before ?" 

" No — at least, not that I remember." 

" You would have remembered if one had ; so you 
ought not to say I don't tell the truth." This with a 
slightly-injured accent. 

" I didn't mean it, Solomon." This very penitently. 
" I only said it to try you. I know you love me ; I 
knew you loved me from the day you called me a brute 
and a beast." 

" I never called you that." 

" Shadrack said you did." 

" I'll make him prove it." 

" Never mind ; it was all right. I gave you credit for 
being a kind-hearted man." 



350 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

" Well, I never said it ; I'll swear to that. I couldn't 
do such a thing." 

" Only figuratively, as the parson says ; and I took it 
figuratively, and thought more of you ever since." 

" Do you think enough of me to take me for better or 
for worse ?" 

" Oh, Solomon !" this softly and happily. 

" I have loved you, Susannah, for sixteen years. Will 
you have me ?" 

" I must think about it." 

° No, no ! don't think about it. Take me without 
thinking. Oh, Susannah, if you don't marry me, I shall 
die!" 

" You'll do that, any way ; you're sixty now, and 
you'll not live another twenty years." She spoke sym- 
pathetically and dolefully. 

" I shall not live twenty days if you say * No.' Be 
kind, Susannah, and don't let me go before my time." 

" I don't want you to die." 

" You are the only one that can save my life." 

" Then I suppose I must save it. It would only be a 
charity to keep a good man in the world." 

Solomon kissed Susannah, and Susannah kissed Solo- 
mon. There was silence, there was sweetness, there was 
sublimity. 

" Solomon dear, you had better go home." 

"Yes, Susannah. Good-night. Shall Christmas be 
the wedding-day ?" 

" If you are good. Now go, but please don't tell any- 
body." 

"No, no! Bye-bye!" 

And as Solomon's footsteps died away in the distance 



A MERRY LEGEND. 35 I 

Aunt Susannah said to herself, " He said I was a beauty, 
and now I am to be his wife. Dear me ! how my head 
aches ! I have never been through such a time in my 
life. He's a good, a dear good, man. Now, I wonder 
what Shadrack and Betsey are at ? I had forgot all about 
them. But he's a dear good man ;" and away she went 
to the kitchen. 

This was what Shadrack and Betsey were doing : first 
of all, both were trying to discover what time had in 
store for them ; secondly, both were seeking for fuel to 
feed the fire burning in each of their hearts ; and thirdly, 
each was striving to comfort the other. In the first of! 
these objects Betsey had the advantage, for she knew all 
the omens and charms then and thereabouts believed in ; 
in the second Shadrack was the better equipped, for he 
was poetically inclined and had the ideal of the beautiful 
Myrtle in his mind ; in the third each had equal powers, 
for each knew the joys of love and the griefs of unre- 
quited affection. For one thing, they had never been 
left alone so long before, and therefore they had a fair 
chance to procure the best of their desires. Betsey 
gave Shadrack the remains of a huge apple-pudding, 
and while he was eating it she told him a story of a 
haunted house that made his blood run cold and his 
skin get " goose-fleshed." He ate the pudding and 
listened. It seemed some beautiful girl broke her heart 
over a faithless swain and then took to walking in the 
night-time. Betsey said she was sure she would do the 
same if any chap were false to her. How any " chap " 
could be we know not, for, though Betsey was but a 
half-grown girl and a kitchen-maid to boot, she had all 
the making of a good-looking — and, indeed, a handsome 

23 



352 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

— woman about her. Shadrack thought that next to 
Myrtle she was perfection, but he further thought that 
between the two girls was a difference as great as that 
between the rose and the dandelion. If any man de- 
serted her, he said he would drown him ; to which 
Betsey replied rather pointedly that the one she had 
selected would never break his word. Shadrack nodded 
assent, and said he was glad to hear it. Then he told 
her over again, as he had done many a time before, 
that he loved a sweet girl, but he never gave the name ; 
so Betsey was sure it was she. 

" I don't know whether she loves me," he said. 

" I am sure she does," exclaimed Betsey. 

"Why?" 

" Because she can't help herself." 

Shadrack was tickled at the delicate flattery. Then 
they got the leaves out of the tea-pot and put them in a 
saucer of water ; and when Betsey saw the forms they 
assumed, she was more confident than ever in her own 
and Shadrack's good fortune. 

"The one you want," she said, "you will have, and 
the one I want I shall have." 

" Are you sure of it ?" asked Shadrack. 

" Certain ; everything says so." 

" Well," said Shadrack, thoughtfully, " Providence is 
always kind to orphans. You're an orphan, Betsey ?" 

" Yes," she replied, with some pride. 

" So am I, and therefore we agree on that point." 

To think that they agreed even so far was joy inex- 
pressible to poor Betsey. She only wished that Shad- 
rack would see how much farther they could be one, but 
he, unconscious youth, held his peace. So they sat by 



A MERR Y LE GEND. 353 

the fire talking and dreaming, seeing visions in the fan- 
tastic embers and getting happier as the future seemed 
to dawn with glory. They were very still when Aunt 
Susannah came in. Shadrack was leaning over as 
though in deep study, and Betsey was sitting beside 
him smoothing his red locks and wondering why he did 
not speak the mystic words. His thoughts were far 
away — far away from the simple maiden at his side — 
with the Myrtle Muriel whom he had seen but once and 
thought he should now love for ever. 

" That's what you're doing !" said his aunt, recalling 
him from his reverie and frightening Betsey almost into 
a fit. " Be off to bed, you bad, good-for-nothing Betty, 
and you too, Shadrack, and let me never see you do 
that again." 

" What ?" asked Shadrack. 

" Never mind. Be off; that's all." 

" I wonder if that is all ?" said Betsey to herself as 
she went up the garret stairs. " I only wish it were. 
But never mind, old Susannah; I shall have Shadrack 
one of these days." 

" I shall have Myrtle," said Shadrack as he got into 
bed ; " darling Myrtle will be mine." 

" The little wretch !" said Aunt Susannah to herself 
as she went to her room ; " she's after my orphan-boy. 
I'll pay her up in the morning. I'll keep her on bread 
and water for a week : that'll cure her. And I am to 
have Solomon — dear, good soul ! and he said I was a 
beauty — a beauty !" 

The Christmas-tide had always been celebrated in true 
English and ancient form in the old farmhouse when 



354 THE HEART OF ME RE IE ENGLAND. 

Shadrack's father was alive, and now that he was dead 
Aunt Susannah decided the custom should be kept up 
the same as ever. Moreover, Christmas morning was 
to witness the completion of her own and Solomon's 
hopes. The day before more than the usual prepara- 
tions were made. The house was adorned with ever- 
greens — the holly and the ivy, laurel, bay, box and rose- 
mary, and a huge bunch of mistletoe in the middle of 
the kitchen. The mighty Yule-log was drawn in tri- 
umphantly and left ready to roll on the festive fire; 
geese, ducks and turkeys were plucked ; plum-puddings 
and mince-pies were made ; a great haunch of venison 
and a still greater sirloin of beef were prepared ; a more 
than necessary quantity of bread was baked, but bread 
baked on Christmas Eve never gets mouldy ; and Bet- 
sey saw that there was plenty of spice and crab-apples 
to put in the ale, and other condiments to make up the 
wassail-bowl. All the servants on the farm, the rela- 
tions and friends, and even strangers, were invited, as 
in the days of yore. The wedding-cake had been made 
for more than a fortnight and carefully locked up in the 
parlor cupboard, where every day, and sometimes twice 
in the day, Aunt Susannah went to see if it were all 
right — neither stolen by the fairies nor eaten by the 
mice — and to think for a few minutes of the precious 
Solomon. Shadrack did all he could to further the al- 
most endless arrangements. He made up his mind that 
old Solomon would die before long, so the wedding 
made but little difference. After all, it was better for 
Aunt Susannah to marry a man on in years, because, if 
matrimony disagreed with her, the end would not be so 
far off. Betsey said it was the very best thing that could 



A MERRY LEGEND. 355 

happen, and she had foreseen its coming from the very 
day the cuckoo was first heard last spring and she found 
in Aunt Susannah's shoe a hair the actual color and 
shade of old Solomon's. 

Christmas Eve set in cold and clear. The ground 
was covered with snow and glistened as the star-beams 
fell upon it from out the frosty sky. From the old 
church-tower, nearly a mile away, came the sound of 
the merry peals, now louder, now fainter, as the wind 
blew. A goodly company were assembled in the large 
kitchen, and on the hearth blazed brightly the great log. 
A cheery crowd they were, too; not a heavy-hearted 
one among them. They laughed and sang, now a 
carol, then a ballad, then a ringing chorus ; some told 
strange stories of hobgoblins and ghosts, but they felt 
safe, for on this night no spirits walk the earth ; then 
they danced ; then came blind-man's-buff and puss-in- 
the-corner and hide-and-seek ; and then dancing again. 
Gayly played the old fiddler, and far more gayly did 
Solomon and Susannah lead the jig. And every time a 
pause came in each drank of the foaming ale or of the 
reeking wassail. Many a kiss was given under the mis- 
tletoe ; even Betsey got one from Shadrack, and, as she 
said afterward, it was better than anything else that night. 
Other girls were made happy in like manner, but she 
discovered the prognostic of her bliss in the fact that 
that morning she had put on her left stocking wrong 
side out. Nor had she changed that stocking when she 
dressed for the evening, so that the good luck might 
not go from her, and therefore she wore both a blue 
stocking and a white one, which somewhat extraordi- 
nary fact had been noticed and commented upon by 



356 THE HEART OE ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

nearly every one in the room. Betsey got the kiss, 
and she didn't care for anybody. 

Three hours passed away, and a little before midnight 
and soon after a hearty supper the company began to 
disperse, some to sleep off the effects of the carousal, 
some to get ready for the morrow, and Solomon and 
Susannah to dream and dress for the bridal. As the 
clock struck twelve Shadrack and two or three of the 
other young men went out to the sheds to see the cat- 
tle go down on their knees, as they do at that time, fol- 
lowing the example of those in the stable at Bethlehem, 
who thus did homage to the infant Redeemer. They 
also went to the hives to hear the bees sing their 
" Gloria in Excelsis." 

Betsey went alone into the garden. She looked up 
at the bright stars and listened to the pealing bells as 
they so joyously heralded in the day of days. Then 
she went to the sage-bush and carefully plucked twelve 
leaves, but the shadowy form of the one who should 
make her a bride appeared not. She made a cross in 
the snow and laid thereon a sprig of holly full of red 
berries, but he came not. " He's an orphan," she said, 
in her disappointment, " and, I suppose, is beyond the 
reach even of Christmas-Eve charms." So she turned 
back, and ere long sought her little attic-bed. Poor 
Betsey ! and she loved Shadrack better, far better, she 
said over and over again, than Susannah loved Solo- 
mon. But before she laid down she went to the tiny 
latticed window and looked out into the calm night. 
The bells still rang on, ringing down the changes 
rapidly and sweetly. She saw the garden quiet and 
deserted, the woods with their leafless and snow-laden 



A MERR Y LE GEND. 357 

branches, the cottages in the distance with their now- 
whitened thatch, the church on the hill far away and 
the light gleaming from the belfry, and now and then 
an owl sweeping silently across the fields and a brilliant 
meteor rushing amid the star-streams. And as she stood 
peering through the diamond panes she fell into musing 
— this half-grown girl with an uncultured mind, but a 
loving heart. Would Shadrack Abednego ever be 
hers ? Would she, poor Cinderella II., ever be a 
bride ? Ah ! maidens poor as she had been highly 
blessed, even as was Mary, the virgin mother. The 
Christmas story came to her — the stable at the inn, 
the manger-cradle, the kindly Joseph, the Divine Child, 
the adoring shepherds. She saw it all, and almost 
thought she saw the heavenly host wheeling in clouds 
of light overhead : " ' Glory to God in the highest !' 
That was what the parson said the angels sang this 
blessed night, and he said the Babe was the good God 
that loveth even me;" and she thought it passing 
strange that He who made the shining stars should 
look upon a poor kitchen-maid. Could he love a girl 
that scrubbed the floor and did odds and ends about the 
house ? No wonder the angels sang ! She could sing 
too. And the tears began to flow, but they were not 
sorrowful "tears. 

Again Betsey looked down into the garden. There 
was the cross in the snow close by the old cedar tree. 
How dark it looked on the white ground ! There were 
the scattered sage-leaves, and there were foot-tracks. 
That was all. No ! Betsey's blood began to creep ; she 
shivered with fear. Out in the shadow of the cedar she 
saw a misty figure, a white cloud in human shape. The 



358 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

enchantment was working at last ! Who could it be ? 
It must, of course, be Shadrack; who else could be 
Betsey's groom ? The indistinct form moved out of the 
dark cedar shade, and against the clear snow became 
more vague than ever. It stopped at the cross and 
picked up the holly- sprig and one of the sage- leaves. 
Then it moved slowly away, till at last it vanished and 
Betsey saw it no more. She was both frightened and 
satisfied. She had hoped her charm would succeed, 
and yet she did not altogether believe it would. Now, 
beyond a doubt, Shadrack would be the one. The more 
she pondered the matter over, the more certain it be- 
came. Had not the figure Shadrack's tall and youth- 
like form ? Was not the hair Shadrack's hair ? Nobody 
else could come, for he was the one she loved. So, 
happy and hopeful, she lay down to sleep — if possible, 
to dream of the good fortune which awaited her in the 
bright by and by. 

Before the sun arose that Christmas morn came the 
waits with their hand-bells, and a little later village 
children singing carols. As their " God rest you, merry 
gentlemen !" filled the clear air Shadrack hastened to 
the kitchen that he might help give each rustic min- 
strel and songster the customary dole. After breakfast 
the usual Christmas boxes were given and accepted. 
Among the many which Shadrack received was a flute 
from old Solomon, made by himself out of the wood of 
an elder tree which grew far beyond the sound of cock- 
crowing — a great help to the melody of a musical in- 
strument, for everybody knows that the song of the 
chanticleer dulls and injures the elder- wood. Shadrack 
looked upon the flute as a token of great affection, and 



A MERRY LEGEND. 359 

he trusted that Solomon would live for some years yet 
to hear him play it — an accomplishment he resolved 
forthwith to acquire. Nine o'clock was the time ap- 
pointed for the wedding, and Shadrack, in spite of his 
improved feelings toward the bridegroom, was rather 
sorry he could not join his boy-friends in the time- 
honored Christmas sport of hunting owls and squirrels. 
Solomon came over dressed in a new suit — very fine 
corduroy knee-breeches, a richly-decorated silk vest, a 
plush velvet coat, a great beaver hat and red cardinal 
hose. He was straight in figure and smiling in counte- 
nance. Everybody remarked upon his youthful appear- 
ance : Mr. Solomon never looked 50 well before Aunt 
Susannah had sent off to the churchyard before she be- 
gan to dress, to make sure that no grave was open — a 
point of vast importance. Then she arrayed herself in 
her gay attire, and in good time the whole party set out 
for the church. 

Brightly shone the sun ; the sacred edifice was gay 
with festal dress and filled with interested spectators. 
The ceremony went on and was concluded, as nearly all 
such ceremonies are, without let or hindrance. Solomon 
and Susannah were pronounced man and wife; they 
were happy and Shadrack had an uncle. He even 
kissed his new relative, who in his delight at getting 
Susannah kissed first every woman in the company, 
then every man, and finished with the parson. Then 
the books were signed and the bells began to ring, and 
Solomon led his bride to the family pew. Soon the 
morning service began, and after a short sermon every- 
body started for home very well satisfied that the sing- 
ers had never sung better, nor the parson preached 



360 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

more eloquently, nor the church appeared to greater 
advantage, nor a bridal pair looked more interesting. 

Some good-natured neighbors threw several pairs of 
old shoes after the newly-married couple as they passed 
by, and on reaching the house broken cake was sprink- 
led over them. Betsey managed to be the first one to 
steal a pin from the bride and to rub her shoulder 
against her, which feats were regarded by all as highly 
fortunate and promising. All the other pins used by 
Susannah were as speedily as possible thrown away. 
Then the happy soul sat down and tried to cry. Woe 
betide the bride who on her wedding-day does not shed 
a tear ! But she could do nothing but laugh, she was 
so pleased and contented. They pinched her and tickled 
her ; one fat woman stepped upon her corn, but in vain. 
They brought a piece of beef highly seasoned with 
mustard, but she ate it and not a mist of moisture ap- 
peared in her eye. Some one urged Solomon to swear 
at her, but he declined. The more they tried, the more 
she laughed. She could not even go into hysterics, 
though they set seven bottles of smelling-salts in a row 
on the table before her. At last Betsey brought in a 
pan of onions and began to peel them under her nose, 
and in a few minutes the tears came. All was well. 
Solomon kissed her and the company were satisfied. 
Doubtless, Susannah would get along all right in her 
new sphere of life. 

The day drew joyously to its close. Before the sun 
went down old and young were merry as merry could 
be. They feasted and drank gayly and heartily. The 
house rang with the happy revelry. Nobody thought 
of cares and toil to come. This was a happy Christmas, 



A MERRY LEGEND. 36 1 

and a wedding-day besides, and who had evil heart 
enough to be sad ? 

" I say, Shaddy," whispered Betsey to her wished-for 
lord as they sat for a few minutes in a distant corner of 
the room to rest after a violent game — " I say, Shaddy, 
it seems to me love is a sweet thing." 

" Yes, Betsey ; that boy in the gray smock over there 
says it's like bread and butter with sugar on the top." 

" He doesn't know. It's more like sugar with the 
bread and butter thrown in. But just to see old Sol- 
omon and your aunt Susie in the chimney-corner beats 
all I ever heard of. First he kisses her, then she kisses 
him. Look at them now ! One moment she asks him 
if he likes roast turkey better than boiled goose ; the 
next he asks her if she likes her ale warm with a roasted 
crab bobbing in it. And he smooths her dress, and see ! 
that's the fifth time this very night she's tied up his gar- 
ter. I believe he unties it on purpose. They seem to 
forget that there's anybody here but themselves." 

" Oh Betsey, love, you know, is always forgetful," ob- 
served Shadrack, thoughtfully. 

" Do you think so ? I don't." 

" I couldn't say for certain, but that's the saying." 

"Well, the saying is wrong. Do you think, Shad- 
rack, you would ever forget the girl you loved?" 

" Never ! never !" he replied, with unusual decision 
and vigor. 

" Have you ever really loved ?" she asked, after a 
moment's pause. 

" Oh, Betsey, I am in love now. I love a beautiful 
girl — the one, you know, I saw in my dream. I am dy- 
ing with love." 



362 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

" You won't die ; nobody dies with love. They may 
die with eating too much, but no man ever died with 
love." 

"Why not?" 

" They don't love enough ; and if they do love enough, 
they always succeed before love kills them." 

" I love — Oh, Betsey, I love as no one else ever 
loved. I do believe — " 

"That you are the first man who knew what love 
is ?" interrupted Betsey. " But I noticed you ate as 
much roast beef and as many mince-pies as the rest; 
and if you were so deeply in love, you couldn't eat like 
that. The larger the heart gets, the less room there is 
for the stomach." 

"I have to eat, you know. Uncle Solomon, there, 
has done little else but eat and drink all day. I believe 
we shall have to carry him to bed yet." 

" He's an old fool," said Betsey, decidedly. " But 
have you ever told your girl you loved her?" 

"No; I have had no chance, and I don't believe I 
could. I don't know what to say." 

" That's another proof you're not in love, Think of 
a fellow being in love and not knowing what to say! 
Why, love has a tongue of its own, and a tongue that 
can speak too, I tell you. All you have to do — at least, 
all that you, Shaddy, would have to do — is to go straight 
to your heart's love and say to her, ' Sweetheart, may I 
love you ?' and she would say, ' Love me ? Ay, till 
death !' " 

" I never could say that," replied Shadrack ; " I should 
drop before the words were out of my mouth." 

" Well, don't say anything, then ; actions speak louder 



A MERRY LEGEND. 363 

than words sometimes. Sit down beside her and look 
into her face. You could do that ? All right. Then 
take her by the hand, then put your arm around her 
neck, then kiss her, and she will understand the rest." 

" But suppose she shouldn't ?" said the doubtful Shad- 
rack. 

" But she will — oh, I know she will ! Every girl 
knows what that means. Just try it and see." 

" I will, Betsey. I'll take the first chance, though I've 
never had one yet." 

" I suppose you keep putting it off and saying, ' Next 
time! next time!' There's no time like the present." 

" That's true. But see ! Tom Hodges is looking for 
me. I must run." 

" Tom Hodges is always in the way," said Betsey to 
herself after Shadrack had left her ; " another minute, 
and Shaddy would have been mine. Oh dear ! a heart- 
ful of love is a heavy burden. But the figure was Shad- 
dy's ; that's as clear as cream. And hasn't my right eye 
itched all day — a sure sign that I should see my love ? 
And who could my love be but Shadrack ? If old Sol- 
omon got the aunt, why shouldn't I get the nephew — 
more so, seeing he's an orphan ? It's all right ; only I 
do wish Tom Hodges hadn't come at all. Shadrack 
nearly got it out — nearly told me I was the one he loved 
with all his heart. This is a merry Christmas for me ! 
But now for the dishes ; I suppose I must go and help 
wash them. Oh, Shaddy, for your sake ! for your sake !" 
and she left the room. 

Over this day we drop the curtain — drop it amid the 
flourish of trumpets and the scraping of violins ; and 
again we move on to a bright day a year and a half far- 



364 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

ther down time's stream, when June birds were singing 
and June flowers were blooming. 

Beyond the fact of everybody and everything being 
so many months older, there was little change in the 
home where Solomon and Susannah now held united 
sway, and Shadrack awaited the time when he would 
become lord and master. There was peace. Solomon 
and Susannah were happy ; no disturbance had come 
near them. Their love flowed on in the same even 
course. Betsey had not yet heard the words that should 
rejoice her heart. She wondered, but still believed. In 
the mean time, she had developed into a comely damsel, 
and had received many compliments from the young 
men of the neighborhood, but she kept faithful to Shad- 
rack. Every charm she tried, whether successful or not, 
convinced her that he was destined for her. Why he 
held his peace she could not understand. She had 
again and again tried to help him, but he did not seem 
to grasp the idea. So, looking upon his silence as an 
infirmity of orphanage, she quietly and assuredly waited 
the time. 

As to Shadrack, never but once had he seen the idol 
of his heart, Myrtle Muriel. That young lady had been 
away, and had only just returned to the parish. Ru- 
mors of her growing beauty had reached Shadrack and 
helped to strengthen his unswerving loyalty. He sought 
to see her, but for some time in vain, till one day he 
met her unexpectedly, and once and for all. 

In an afternoon in June when the sun was shining 
brightly and the wind scarcely moved the fresh green 
leaves Shadrack was wandering alone in the woods. As 



A MERRY LEGEND. 365 

he walked along the little path, now listening to the 
blackbird's song, now admiring the white May-bloom, 
now peering into the thicket or the bush where busy 
songsters were building their nests, and now watching 
the tiny streamlet as it dashed down the hill, he thought 
and dreamed. Quite a philosopher had he become 
since the day when Cupid's arrow rather than Betsey's 
pin pierced his heart. Imagination had perforce to take 
the place of reality ; and when imagination is thus 
obliged to work, it responds heartily and happily. So 
now Shadrack walked on picturing to himself the 
glories of Myrtle Muriel. One moment he arrayed her 
in sylph-like drapery white as the peach-blossom; the 
next she was as though dipped in liquid gold — a sort of 
theatrical and bronze-tint appearance ; then she was ra- 
diant in rainbow hues, and then pure and white again. 
He rather liked to think of her with her hair hanging 
in long wavy tresses, her eyes bright and brimful of 
mischief and her sweet voice prattling merry nonsense. 
And to-day the old picture came up again, and the old 
dream went on the same as before, from the day she 
consented to be his bride till the early morn when the 
sun-glory fell upon them both. When he reached this 
stage in his castle-building, he began to whistle and 
move along more briskly. He felt already a joyous vic- 
tory and fancied the laurel-wreath rested on his brow. 
As he continued to walk he suddenly came to a little 
knoll from the summit of which was to be had a fine 
view of both plain and woodland. He knew the spot 
well, but this time his heart began to leap; for there, 
seated on this knoll, was none other than the dream of 
his life, the beautiful Myrtle. She was alone, sketching. 



366 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

Shadrack stood still, at first scarcely knowing what to 
do. Yet so much had he thought of her, so often had 
he gone over imaginary interviews with her, that he felt 
brave enough for anything that might happen. He 
paused for a few seconds, and then advanced. She 
looked up, but evidently recognized him, or, at least, in- 
stinctively. discerned him to be one from whom she had 
nothing to fear. She even went so far as to return his 
not ungraceful bow ; and when he said, " Good-after- 
noon, miss," she replied, " Good-afternoon, sir." What 
a wonderful voice ! How sweetly its accents lingered in 
the summer air 1 

M This is a beautiful country, miss," observed Shad- 
rack, both proud of his native parish and by this time 
able to appreciate such things. 

" Yes," she replied, with almost equal enthusiasm ; 
" I think that road yonder running under the avenue of 
elms by the old barn is lovely. I am trying to sketch 
it." 

" May I look at your picture ?" asked Shadrack, with 
respectful deference. 

" Certainly," said she, " but it is not what it might be. 
No artist could reproduce that green lane; it is better 
than anything I saw in Italy, and simply beyond copy- 
ing. But I have done my best." 

11 And your best," said he, with unfeigned admiration, 
"is pure perfection. The sketch is prettier than the 
thing itself. That hedge is well done, and nothing 
could be better than the cow looking over the gate. I 
remember one evening when it was almost dark my aunt 
Susannah — You must know her, Miss Myrtle, for I 
am Shadrack Abednego Pruce, her nephew." 



A MERRY LEGEND. 367 

Myrtle nodded assent. 

"Well, she was walking along that very lane when 
suddenly she saw what she thought was a ghost sitting 
on that gate. Away she ran as fast as her feet could 
carry her ; but when I got up to the place — I was be- 
hind, you know — I saw it was nothing but a cow, just 
as you have it in your picture. How I laughed at her 
when I got home ! She would say, ' Any way, it had a 
long face,' and I would say, ' So has the cow, auntie ;' 
and she said no more. Now, when she says that a cer- 
tain unmentionable individual has horns or hoofs or a 
tail, I always reply ' So has the cow ;' and I do believe 
she prays every night that I may not be punished for 
my profanity by having to spend some time with that 
nameless gentleman. ' Should you,' she observes, ' you 
would never forget it ;' and I don't suppose I ever 
should. But you have hit it splendidly. I never saw 
anything so good." 

" I remember your aunt Susannah," said Myrtle, 
pleased at Shadrack's praise. " You lost your father 
and mother, did you not?" 

" Yes ; I am an orphan." 

" I know — of course you must be if your parents are 
dead — and pretty lonely you must be." 

" Oh no," replied Shadrack ; "lama lone orphan, as 
Betsey says, but I am not lonely. You see, I have 
plenty to do and my health is good. I am always well 
and can always eat, day or night, and never get tired." 

" Ah ! you are a big, strong young man." 

Shadrack felt that he had grown another ten inches at 
once. 

" I am nearly six feet high and shall soon be eighteen 
24 



368 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

years old," said he, " and there's not a man a surer shot 
than I am. I have killed a snipe on the wing — a thing 
few sportsmen can boast of. Oh, but it was fun ! May 
I sit down on the grass and tell you about it ? Thank 
you. There isn't much to tell, when I think of it. It 
was down in the low meadow there ; you can see the 
very spot from where you are sitting. I and Uncle 
Solomon were about with our guns looking for any- 
thing that might turn up. I had learned so much as to 
shoot a rabbit running, but I had never shot a snipe fly- 
ing. ' Very few men ever have,' said Uncle Solomon. — 
' What if I should ?' asked I. — ' I'll give you my best 
gun,' he replied. The words were scarcely out of his 
mouth when up sprang a snipe. In an instant I fired, 
and the bird fell. He rubbed his eyes and cried, ' My 
best gun ! my best gun ! But, Shaddy, old fellow, lend 
it me the rest of my days, and you shall have it when I 
am gone.' How I teased him! No, I must have it 
there and then. I saw the tears in his eyes, so I prom- 
ised to lend him the gun if he would stuff the bird for 
me. He did so, and it's now in a glass case in our par- 
lor. I have heard it said that I shall never shoot another 
snipe like that ; the chance comes only once in a life- 
time." 

u How*s that ?" asked Myrtle, very much interested in 
the boyish story. 

" The bird flies so zigzag. Some say it's like a girl : 
you see her here, and the next moment she's there." 

" That's true," said Myrtle, smiling. 

" No, it isn't true," replied Shadrack, positively ; " I 
don't believe it. I don't believe half the things they 
say about girls. Solomon says there's only one first- 



A MERRY LEGEND. 369 

rate girl in the country, and that's Aunt Susie, but I 
know there's at least another." 

"That May-bloom over there is beautiful, isn't it?" 
said Myrtle, pointing to a hedge white with blos- 
soms. 

" Yes ; but there, again ! the greatest beauty in the 
world is to be found in a girl's eyes." 

" Don't believe it, Mr. Shadrack. Girls' eyes are de- 
ceitful, sometimes, at least. They are pretty and 
changeable as April skies. The man who trusts them 
makes a mistake." 

" No, no !" interposed Shadrack ; " the eye is the win- 
dow of the heart, and there is nothing in a good girl's 
heart but what is of heaven." 

" You are a young admirer of the sex. But then all 
girls are not good." 

" Perhaps not. I never saw one, though, that wasn't 
good. My mother was good, so is Aunt Susannah, so 
is Betsey, so are you, and — " 

" But you don't know me," said Myrtle. 

" Not know you !" said the enthusiastic youth. " Do 
you think I don't know every tree in this wood ? Well, 
I know you better than I know them. I have dreamed 
and thought of you for two full years, and, though I 
have seen you but once, I have lived as though I saw 
you all the time." 

Myrtle blushed — rather with delight than with dis- 
pleasure. She got up and said with a half smile, 

"You read romances, fair sir; young gentlemen all 
do. But I must go; so good-day. Many thanks for 
your company. No, thank you; I'll carry the book 
myself. There, now! Good-bye." 



370 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

"But, Miss Myrtle," said Shadrack, desperately — 
" Miss Myrtle, this is the only chance I may have of 
seeing you, and — " 

" Were you looking for a silly girl when you found 
me?" she asked, laughingly. 

" No ; only I have been wanting to see you for so 
long, and this is the first time. May I not tell you all ? 
I am only a country youth, but by and by I shall be next 
man to your father in the parish. I have red hair — I 
know it — and am too big and gawky, but I have a good 
heart, and you know — " 

" There, now ! not another word, my noble youth. 
You are a valiant knight to woo the first maiden you 
meet in the merry greenwood! Prithee walk a little 
farther off. So runs the language of the books, but you 
know them better than I. Nay, hold thy peace. Thou 
wilt swear by the waving poplar trees that thou dost 
love me. I see it in thine eye ; I feel it in thy voice. 
Oh how the little darts fall upon my heart like the sharp 
hailstones in an August day ! Say not a word, my baron 
so bluff and bold, but walk on faster, lest the even shades 
fall upon us ere we reach the open road. Let me laugh, 
O my good Shadrack, let me laugh ! for, though thy 
hair be red, yet doubtless it ariseth from the scorching 
of the furnace. Thy namesake, you remember, went 
through fire ; you, I suppose, would go through fire and 
water for your ladylove ?" 

" You have said for me, Miss Myrtle, much that I 
could not have said," replied the slightly-crestfallen 
Shadrack. " I never could have told you that I loved 
you, but 'tis true all the same. I am only a plain yeo- 
man, or that's all I shall be, but I speak truth when I 



A MERRY LEGEND. 37 1 

say you tell the truth. It was bold of me to look up 
to a parson's daughter — to one who is the queenliest of 
all maidens ; but I have not sinned." 

" There's no harm done, friend Shadrack," she replied, 
more seriously — " no harm done ; and if I thought the 
same of you, no doubt we should agree. However, you 
are kind to think of me as you do — too kind, I fear. 
Only don't speak of such things again. Now, this is 
my way," pointing down the road which they had now 
reached, " and that is yours ; here we part, and there's 
no harm done." 

" Let me walk with you a little way," said Shad- 
rack. 

" No, not a step. You have said enough already." 

" I haven't said anything — at least, not all." 

" I know all the rest ; so good-bye ;" and she tripped 
lightly away. 

Shadrack stood watching her as she went up the road, 
so pretty, so light-hearted. He sighed and shook his 
head. " It's strange," said he to himself, " but still I 
love her. I'll have her yet. She's young and giddy, 
but never mind. There! she's gone. There's no one 
else like her;" and he turned round and went home. 

A few nights later was Midsummer Eve, when the 
country-people light bonfires and maidens watch in the 
church porch for their lovers. How the latter managed 
when, say, half a dozen sought the sombre portal for the 
same purpose, we are not told ; but there is no doubt 
the believing damsel was oftentimes rewarded, for did 
not the young men know the custom, and did not they 
too watch and wait ? 

It would have been unnatural for Betsey to have 



372 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

missed so good an opportunity of confirming her hopes 
and dreams. The fact that Shadrack was an orphan 
seemed to run counter to all her charms. Nothing 
worked exactly as it should, and she began to doubt 
whether it was he whom she saw on Christmas Eve 
long ago. However, her love was strong as ever, and 
she still clung to the belief that destiny had decreed in 
her favor. If he would only speak ! That was the 
trouble. He was in love, as any novice might see. 
Everything he did — his absent manner, his dreamy 
words, his evident desire for sympathy — showed that he 
was deeply wounded. One might almost fancy one saw 
the blood trickling from his broken heart, each drop suf- 
ficient to satisfy the most ardent maidenly longing. But 
why did he not tell his love ? Why should he seek to 
hide it? Shadrack was an orphan : that was all. 

So an hour before midnight Betsey started off for the 
old church. The people of the farm were feasting in 
the kitchen or around the huge bonfire, and therefore 
she got away unnoticed. Up the hill she hasted, almost 
breathless with excitement, anxious to read fate and 
afraid lest fate should speak. The moon was just rising 
as she entered the churchyard. There was no sign of 
living creature, not even an owl or a night-hawk. The 
graves lay, as graves generally do, silent and suggestive 
— so suggestive that Betsey's nerves began to give way 
when she looked at them. But it was near twelve 
o'clock, and now was the golden opportunity. Into the 
deep porch she went. It felt chilly and dismal. She 
shivered with fear, and did not help herself much when 
she thought that instead of a lover she might catch her 
death. Still, she was a brave girl, and withal a good 



A MERRY LEGEND. 373 

girl; so she repeated the Creed and said the Lord's 
Prayer, and then she knew no evil could possibly be- 
fall her. 

" Strange, though," said she to herself, " that nearly 
every time I have failed. Last year I took a clean gar- 
ment and wetted it and turned it wrong side out and set 
it on the back of a chair to dry, but no sweetheart came 
to turn it right again. I lay on my back and stopped 
my ears with laurel-leaves, but he did not appear. I put 
beneath my pillow a coal which I found under a plantain- 
root, but that night I dreamt nothing. I have gathered 
a rose, walking backward to the bush, and I have kept 
it in clean paper till Christmas without looking at it, and 
then I stuck it in my bosom, but no lover came to pluck 
it out. I don't know what I haven't tried. Are all or- 
phans like Shadrack ?" and then the great bell in the 
tower struck the first note of midnight. 

Betsey trembled and muttered the words of incanta- 
tion. The last note died away, and she saw nothing. 
Then she heard a footstep on the gravel- walk, and if she 
could she would have screamed. The footsteps came 
nearer the porch, but she stood motionless, unable to 
move hand or foot, unable even to think. Another in- 
stant, and Shadrack stood before he. 

" Oh, Betsey, Betsey !" cried he. " Quick ! come with 
me." She neither moved nor spoke. " I saw you come 
in. Don't be frightened ; it is I myself, in my own flesh 
and blood. Come, come !" Her face was ashy pale ; 
the moonlight was beginning to fall upon her. Shad- 
rack took her by the arm : " Oh, Betsey, do wake up ! 
A dreadful thing has happened. Myrtle is dead — lying 
out here in the churchyard dead and stiff. I came up 



374 THE HEART OF ME ERIE ENGLAND. 

just now, and I saw the white form on the ground. Oh, 
come and see what can be done." He half dragged her 
out of the porch. 

" Shaddy," Betsey gasped, " I am bewildered." 

" But she is dead," said Shadrack, still pulling Betsey 
along. 

" Who ?" asked she. 

" Myrtle. See ! here she lies." He pointed to a figure 
lying on the green sward. " It is Myrtle," said he, with 
hushed breath. " I have lifted her hand that lies across 
her face ; she is dead. What can we do ?" 

" Stay by her, Shaddy, while I run to the vicarage for 
help." 

Betsey was all right now; the evident anguish of 
Shadrack brought back her senses. She was off at 
once. 

"Poor Myrtle!" said Shadrack. "My Myrtle, now 
thou canst never be mine. Gone for ever !" He stood 
there in the moonlight looking down upon the lifeless 
body. This was the end of the dreaming, and the glory 
was not the early bridal and the meridian splendor, but 
midnight sorrow and a grave. 

In a few minutes Betsey returned with a number of 
people — among them, the clergyman. He stooped down 
and lifted his daughter's hand, and cried, " My Myrtle ! 
My love !" but she was dead. They took her up and 
carried her to the house. " It was her heart," one 
whispered to another ; " her heart troubled her." Shad- 
rack told them how he had found her. What took her 
to the churchyard at that time of night ? It could not 
be that she might keep the village custom ? No one 
could tell ; no one ever would know. Only, when Shad- 



A MERRY LEGEND. 375 

rack and Betsey were about to leave for home the cler- 
gyman took him by the hand and said, 

" She told me all about it, and she laughed, but she 
wasn't angry. She didn't know you ; but when I told 
her about you, she said she was sorry. That was all. 
Good-night;" and he went back to weep by Myrtle's 
bed. 

Betsey was not so smitten with grief as to forget that 
Shadrack had appeared to her at the midnight hour. 
She was sorry that a catastrophe had happened, but she 
was satisfied that the youth by her side was now her 
own. Not that she suspected for one moment Shad- 
rack's feeling toward Myrtle. He had spoken of love in 
the abstract, and never in the concrete. It was there- 
fore with honest regret that she said as they were walk- 
ing home, i 

" It's a sad thing, Shaddy." 

" Yes, it's dreadful," replied he, mournfully. 

" Everybody who loved her will be broken up," she 
observed, gravely. 

" Broken up completely, Betsey." 

" Such a beautiful girl ! Did you see how her long 
hair lay upon the grass?" 

" Yes." 

The two walked on for some time without speaking. 

" I am very sorry, Shaddy," said she, at length. 

" You are a kind-hearted body." 

They were home now. 

Ere long Myrtle was laid in the ground, and Shad- 
rack more than ever realized that his dream was gone. 
Every Sunday morning while the summer lasted he lay 
a garland of flowers upon her grave. Betsey helped to 



376 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

gather and arrange this weekly offering. But time 
works both changes and cures. Shadrack did not for- 
get Myrtle, but he was young and could not grieve for 
ever. People wondered he was sad so long. Some said 
the sudden fright had unsettled his mind. Old Sol- 
omon said he would be all right when the partridge- 
shooting came in, and Aunt Susannah believed that 
when the blenheims ripened he would be the same 
cheery soul as of yore. Betsey had almost lost heart. 
She had no confidante, and she was obliged to hide her 
thoughts, but more than ever did she wish something 
would come true. 

The day came at last. 

" Betsey," said Shadrack one October evening as they 
were looking for nuts — " Betsey, do you remember the 
dream I had long ago of the wedding — of my wedding, 
you know?" 

" I remember it very well." 

" It can never be now, Betsey." 

"No? Why not?" 

" I haven't any one to love." 

" No one to love !" exclaimed Betsey, astonished. 
" No one to love ! Where am I?" 

" Well, I might love you, but I never thought of you. 
Forgive me, Betsey, but I never thought of you." 

" I don't wish you to think of me," said she, in a pen- 
itent tone. 

" No, Betsey, I won't — at least, not unless you wish 
me to." 

" I don't wish you to, Shaddy : I am not good enough 
for you." She stood in the golden autumn sunset, her 
blue eyes deep with shaded emotion, her cheeks brightly 



A MERRY LEGEND. 377 

red. " I am a nobody — only an orphan ; not one for you 
to love." 

" I can't help loving you a little," he replied. " You 
are so kind to me, and you do look beautiful in the sun- 
light — almost like the maiden in my dream." 

Betsey smiled. 

" You must not look at me, Shadrack," she said, " but 
seek to find the dream come true in a better girl than I. 
So think not of me." 

" I won't ; only, the more I look at you, Betsey, the 
more I see you as the bride of my dream. Your eyes, 
your figure and your hair are hers. And now the light 
falls on you — Nay, stand still and let me see you in 
the glory. Yes, Betsey, you are the very one ; only, it 
is in the evening and not in the morning light that I be- 
hold you." 

" You are fancying this ;" and she stooped to pluck a 
blue flower. " Please don't try to love me. If there's 
nobody else in the world, don't think of me. I am only 
Betsey." 

" But you are a queen," said he, enthusiastically. 

'* No ; I am an orphan." 

" So am I. And I say you are a queen. Who can 
be more beautiful than you at this moment ? Who can 
stand beside you now ?" 

" Let us go," said Betsey. " Aunt Susannah will won- 
der that we are not in before this." 

But Shadrack was being driven along in a current that 
grew swifter every moment. 

" No, Betsey," he said ; " you say I must not think of 
you, but now I know I cannot help it. You say I must 
not love you, but for me not to love you is impossible. 



378 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

I must love you, I will love you. Do not turn aside. I 
am Shadrack ; don't you think you could love me ?" 

" I might try, but who would love a youth so tall as 
you ?" 

" Never mind ; I only want you to love me." 

" I do, Shaddy. I have loved you for long." 

And Shadrack kissed her. 

Betsey's triumph-day had come. The sun went down ; 
and when she stood before Aunt Susannah in the kitch- 
en, demure and silent, that worthy asked, 

" What kept you so long in the orchard ? Dreaming, 
I suppose." 

" Yes, Aunt Susie, dreaming," she replied. 

That night Betsey slept in peace. 

In the visions of the darkness Shadrack saw Myrtle 
standing beside him, and he heard her say, " Betsey is 
the bride ;" then, smiling, she vanished from his sight. 

" I knew it," said Aunt Susannah to her loving spouse 
when the news came out ; " I knew it. That minx was 
after Shadrack Abednego from the first." 

" She's a likely wench," observed Solomon. 

" I have nothing against her, only that she's going to 
have Shadrack," said Susannah. 

" Somebody must have had him, and why not Bet- 
sey ?" 

"That's so," she replied, thoughtfully. 

" That's so," he returned. 

And it was so. 

From the triumph-day to the wedding-day was not 
long ; and when the bells rang out the bridal peal, the 
whole parish said Shadrack had the best of girls and 
Betsey had the best of men. Everybody, for a wonder, 



A MERRY LEGEND. 379 

was pleased, if not satisfied. The envy common at 
such times was softened down, and no word or look 
reached the happy couple but of congratulation and 
good wishes. This was as it should be. At the same 
time, it may be doubted if a groom or a bride is not all 
the happier for knowing that he or she is looked upon 
with some little envy. Who wants a husband no other 
woman would have ? Who wants a wife no other man 
would seek ? There was not a maiden present who did 
not wish she was Betsey ; there was not a man who did 
not wish he was Shadrack. However, it was a good-na- 
tured feeling, and soon passed away — a sort of soft April 
mist that disappeared in the sunshine. • 

One scene more, and we must leave our wedded or- 
phans. In the dull November, when the leaves had all 
fallen, and bleak winds and chilly rains swept across the 
fields and made home more attractive than ever, a happy 
company were assembled in the old farmhouse. Solo- 
mon and Susannah, Shadrack and Betsey, and a few of 
the neighbors were sitting around the great open fire- 
place in the light of the blazing logs. They were 
laughing and joking as is the manner of free-hearted 
country-folk. Village gossip formed the staple of con- 
versation. When it lagged, some one called out to Bet- 
sey for a ghost-story. Strange how people love such 
stories, and stranger still that civilization cannot destroy 
the fascination ! 

" No," said Betsey ; " I cannot tell one to-day. Mine 
are all old. Perhaps Shaddy will." 

" Now, Shad !" cried the company ; and after a min- 
ute's thought he began. 

" My story is true ; mine own eyes saw that which I 



380 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

shall tell. You remember the parson's daughter, Miss 
Myrtle Muriel, the one I found in the churchyard on 
Midsummer Eve? Well, early in the morning of my 
wedding-day, when I was running over in my mind the 
days gone by and the days to come, suddenly I saw be- 
fore me none other than the same Myrtle. She was 
robed in white and her hair was in long tresses. I was 
not frightened — scarcely startled — for I was thinking of 
her at that moment. She spoke to me and said, ' The 
bridal-day, good sir! I bless you and your bride.' I 
could not speak ; I simply bowed. ' Love shall crown 
your life,' she went on — ' love shall crown your life.' 
Still I looked, and I saw her fade away, and, though it 
was a spirit, yet was I glad. We stood before the altar 
— Betsey and I — and as the parson read the words that 
made us one for ever I saw beyond him on the higher 
step the figure of poor Myrtle. The sunbeams fell upon 
her and bathed her in more than earthly glory. She 
looked upon me with her soft, sweet eyes and seemed 
to breathe a benediction upon us. Oh, I saw her so 
plainly ! I fancied once she spoke, but what she said I 
could not tell. Then, when all was done, I saw a thin 
white mist before the altar ; the sun shone brighter, and 
it had gone. That was all, and it is true." 

" What did it mean ?" asked Aunt Susannah. 

"Yes, Shaddy dear," put in Betsey; "what did it 
mean ?" 

" Nothing more than this that you can understand — a 
blessing from the dead, a prophecy that love shall in- 
deed crown our life." 

" And so it shall, dear Shadrack," cried the devoted 
Betsey. 






A MERRY LEGEND. 38 1 

Shadrack kissed his bride, and the company pledged 
their health in sparkling ale. 

" No longer an orphan, Shaddy," whispered Betsey. 

" No ; a good wife is a second mother," replied Shad- 
rack. 

The rain fell fast, the wind blew fierce, the fire blazed 
brighter than ever; and then, with loved ones beside 
them, Shadrack and Betsey sat hand in hand looking 
into the leaping flames and beyond them down the 
years — the years that should be to them as a vineyard 
of ripened grapes, as a garden of sweet roses. 



CHAPTER XV. 

ILaat <3*limy*e0. 

" Than orange and myrtle more fragrant to me 
Is the sweet-brier rose and the hawthorn tree 
In the land of my nativity." 

They who would see Nature in her prettiest and gen- 
tlest moods must go to England. There, in a climate in 
which extremes of heat and cold are practically un- 
known, she displays her charms and unfolds her graces 
in a rich and unique manner. Association also increases 
the beauty of the picture, and history becomes attractive 
and delightful. You look with pleasure upon wooded 
hills, red-brown wheat-fields, green meadows, sparkling 
streamlets, lawns soft and velvety as an Oriental carpet, 
fruit-laden orchards and innumerable flower-gardens ; 
you also look with no less pleasure upon churches, 
cathedrals and abbeys gray and sacred with age, upon 
castles and towers set in the cloudland of romance and 
chivalry, and upon old manor-houses with their twisted 
chimneys and timbered gables and legends of men and 
women who had their day long, long ago and now dwell 
amidst the mists and the shadows. 

What more delightful place is there than Hampton 
Court Palace, the noble foundation of Cardinal Wolsey 
and the home for many generations of the sovereigns 
of England ? Not only are the grounds exquisitely and 

382 



LAST GLIMPSES. 383 

beautifully laid out and furnished and the house grand 
with long galleries and spacious chambers on the walls 
of which art displays its highest — and perhaps its lowest 
— powers, but everything reminds one of the days of 
yore. In the garden, amid the same yew and holly trees 
which now grow there, Henry VIII. strolled with Anne 
Boleyn and other of his lady-loves. Queen Elizabeth 
traversed the same walks, played upon the same green 
lawn and listened to the songs of gay singers under the 
same elms of royal splendor. In the long bower Mary 
of England held converse with her ladies or with her 
own sad spirit. It requires no effort, indeed, to see 
again the men whose memories haunt the place, and 
dull must he be who cannot catch a glimpse of Wolsey's 
red robe and of Henry's stout figure as they move 
along the garden-paths or through the ancient gate- 
ways. 

Inside, the same wondrous past lives again. There is 
the chamber of William III. with its paintings in which 
masses of nudity are set forth in delicate figuring and 
soft coloring. There are also the beautiful and frail 
women of the court of Charles II., but not one of them 
is as attractive as Miss Pitt among the " Hampton Court 
Beauties." She looks pure, sweet and lovely, reminding 
one of the old lines : 

" Her cheeks like ripened lilies steeped in wine, 
Or fair pomegranate-kernels washed in milk, 
Or snow-white threads in nets of crimson silk, 
Or gorgeous clouds upon the sun's decline." 

The old state bedsteads, the clocks, weather-glasses and 
mirrors, the carvings and the pictures are replete with 
interest, but beyond them think of the regal life, the 

25 



384 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

court intrigues and plans, the galaxy of learning, wit 
and beauty, with which these walls were once familiar — 
of great banquets in the noble tapestried hall, and of 
princes, statesmen and bishops who walked hither and 
thither in the corridors and the rooms. Two centuries 
of England's history are there, but, alas ! vanity of van- 
ities, Death casts the trail of his black robe over all. 

A day at Hampton Court will unfold more than any- 
thing else the delightful and mysterious attractiveness 
of England; the beauty of nature and the charm of 
history unite in a picture the memory of which will 
cling for life. Among the legends is that of the Haunt- 
ed Gallery. This is now used by the repairers of the 
arras, but it was not long since said to be frequented 
by Catherine Howard. That unfortunate queen early one 
morning escaped from the chamber in which she was 
confined before being sent to the Tower, and ran along 
this gallery to seek the king, who had just entered the 
chapel leading out of it. At the door of the chapel she 
was seized by the guards and carried back, her ruthless 
husband, notwithstanding her piercing screams, which 
were heard almost all over the palace, continuing his de- 
votions unmoved. The poor woman perished at the 
Tower, but many times since then, it is said, a female 
figure draped in white has been seen in this gallery com- 
ing toward the door of the royal pew, and as she 
reaches it has been observed to hurry back with dis- 
ordered garments and a ghastly look of despair, uttering 
at the same time the most unearthly shrieks till she 
passes through the door at the end of the gallery. 

The character of Henry VIII. does not improve upon 
acquaintance. He may have been a great statesman and 



LAST GLIMPSES. 385 

an ardent lover, but he made a bad husband. Possibly 
it would have been for his good had he gone through 
the processes practised in his day to correct unfaithful 
and cruel spouses. One of these customs still survives 
in some parts of the country — in Denbighshire, for in- 
stance. Once a year the villagers meet and bring before 
them any who have made themselves notorious as 
drunkards, slanderers or wife-beaters. If the offender is 
found guilty, his right arm is fastened up to the bough 
of a tree, and gallons of cold water are poured down 
his sleeves amidst the jeers and the merriment of the 
crowd. That, however, would have been too gentle for 
the heartless lord of Anne Boleyn and Catherine How- 
ard. Their memory also clings with his to Hampton 
Court Palace. 

A like unscrupulous monster was Dudley, earl of 
Leicester. I mention him because the visitor to the 
Heart of Merrie England will undoubtedly go to Ken- 
ilworth. The story of poor Amy Robsart is known to 
all, nor is there any doubt that she fell a victim to am- 
bition. The tempting bait of Elizabeth's hand was too 
much for the unprincipled Leicester ; he did not hesitate 
to consign the gentle wife to the cruelties of foul men. 
In a secluded house near Oxford, Lady Dudley was se- 
cretly imprisoned ; there she was ill-treated, neglected 
and subjected to attempts at poisoning. Gentler means 
failing, rougher were employed. One night the deed 
was done : 

" And ere the dawn of day appeared 
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 
Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
And many a cry of mortal fear." 



386 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

The wicked earl did not become the consort of the 
queen, but in 1575 he gave to her at Kenilworth an 
entertainment of rare magnificence and luxury. For 
seventeen days the feast was kept up; the cost was 
enormous. Besides the queen and the ladies of her 
court, there were thirty-one barons and four hundred 
servants. Ten oxen were slaughtered every morning, 
and the consumption of wine is said to have been six- 
teen hogsheads, and of beer forty hogsheads, daily. 
"The clock-bell rang not a note all the while Her 
Highness was there ; the clock stood also still withal ; 
the hands of both the tables stood firm and fast, always 
pointing at two o'clock " — the hour of banquet ! There 
were gorgeous spectacles, masks, farces, feats of skill, 
allegories, mythologies, and all that could amuse or 
while away the time. The queen was received by a 
sibyl " comely clad in a pall of white silk," who ad- 
dressed her in becoming terms. Amid the shouts of 
the attendants, the royal company having reached the 
tilt-yard, was heard the rough speech of the porter de- 
manding the cause of the din and uproar, " but upon 
seeing the queen, as if he had been instantly stricken, he 
falls down upon his knees, humbly begs pardon for his 
ignorance, yields up his club and keys, and proclaims 
open gates and free passage to all." Elizabeth loved 
that sort of thing, though she doubtless saw through it 
and inwardly laughed at the extravagant flattery. One 
day a savage dressed in moss and ivy discoursed before 
her with Echo in her praise. Another day, as she was 
returning from the chase, Triton, rising from the lake, 
prays her, in the name of Neptune, to deliver the en- 
chanted lady pursued by ruthless Sir Bruce. " Presently 



LAST GLIMPSES. 387 

the lady appears, surrounded by nymphs, followed close 
by Proteus, who is borne by an enormous dolphin. 
Concealed in the dolphin, a band of musicians, with a 
chorus of ocean-deities, sing the praise of the powerful, 
beautiful, chaste queen of England." There were 
rougher sports. Thirteen bears were set fighting with 
dogs — a pastime much enjoyed by the queen and de- 
scribed by an eye-witness as " a matter of goodly re- 
lief." Wrestlers from Coventry, Italian tumblers and 
rope-dancers and rural clowns played their part. There 
was a mock-wedding full of gross humor, in which the 
homely joys of the simple country-folk were made ri- 
diculous ; yet the same eye-witness just quoted says, 
" By my troth, 'twas a lively pastime ! I believe it would 
have moved a man to a right merry mood though it 
had been told him that his wife lay dying." Did Lei- 
cester in the midst of that revelry, when his hopes were 
so near fruition, give a thought to the gentle wife of his 
youth ? 

Kenilworth never but then saw such magnificence. 
As one wanders about the splendid ruins, halls and 
yards seem to live again, lords and ladies gayly dressed 
in scarlet satin, sable cloaks, rich laces, costly jewels, 
rare embroidery, rustling silk and sparkling gold move 
hither and thither with that free, boundless life of the 
old times. The heavy tramp of the retainer echoes 
along the stone corridors; the soft songs of courtiers 
float on the summer air and suggest the romance and 
the voluptuous sweetness of an age of poetry and im- 
agination. It is but for a moment, and as a dream the 
picture of life and of chivalry, of lordly splendor and 
of vast ambitions, vanishes away, and the eye rests upon 



388 THE HEART OF MERE IE ENGLAND. 

ivy-clad walls, grass-covered courts, crumbling towers, 
vacant chambers and broken windows — the sad desola- 
tion of departed grandeur and the painful reminder of 
the transitoriness of human life. The irony is sharpened 
when the merry tattle of picnickers breaks in upon the 
silence ; the incongruity of sandwiches and ginger ale is 
apparent. Better to see the great pile in the still night 
when the clear moonbeams fall upon the thick ivy and 
the dark walls, stealing here and there through loophole 
or window, and the owls sweep noiselessly around the 
turrets or over the swampy bed of the old lake. Then 
the weird mystery of bygone days steals into the heart, 
legends and traditions come to mind, and throughout 
life memory retains not only a wondrous and romantic 
scene, but also the thoughts and the visions created 
thereby. 

The ruins of Kenilworth are on a high, rocky site 
commanding a wide view of the country around. From 
the top of the Strong Tower may be seen one of those 
extensive landscapes, quiet and lovely, full of picturesque 
beauty and rural charm, for which England is remark- 
able. Stand there in an early summer morning when 
the purple haze lies low on the horizon and the warm 
light brings out the freshness of woods and fields, the 
silvery sheen of brook and river, and the spires and 
towers of village churches, and Nature will give the 
soul a satisfaction that shall be as full as it is sweet and 
as real as it is undying. 

Wandering through the country districts with which 
this book has had to do, one speedily discovers the dar- 
ling love of the English people — viz., the garden. 
Everywhere flowers abound — in the windows, around 



LAST GLIMPSES. 389 

the door, among the orchard trees and in the strips and 
plots of ground at the back of the house, by the side 
of the walk leading from the road or the street and 
along the edges of the vegetable-patch. Here and there 
are old-fashioned gardens with their winding walks, 
quaintly-shaped flower-beds and curiously-cut hedges 
and box trees. There are sure to be roses — roses white 
and red, roses ruby and cream — in the cottager's garden 
tended by the housewife, and in the squire's by the la- 
dies of the family. In the early morn, when the dew- 
wet buds are scarcely unfolded, delicate hands prune 
and tend them, pluck off dead leaves, cut some of the 
choicest flowers to adorn the breakfast-table and tie up 
straying branches. No wonder the frozen Norwegians 
on the first sight of roses dared not touch what they 
conceived were trees budding with fire ; the brilliant 
splendor of the bush obtains the highest admiration 
and surprise. The poets of all ages have sung its 
royal glories, the gem of earth and the diadem of 
flowers, and have loved to crown it with praise and to 
liken beautiful maidens to it; the lines of Herrick are 
peculiarly true of English girls who live much in the 
open air, breathing the fragrance of the morning and 
delighting in such pastimes as archery, tennis, hunting 
and gardening: 

" One asked me where the roses grow ; 
I bade him not go seek, 
But forthwith bade my Julia show 
A bud in either cheek." 

The heavy work naturally falls to the gardener, who is, 
as a rule, a man of independent and pronounced cha- 
racter. We may picture him as a sunburnt, bright- 



390 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

eyed elderly individual, brimful of opinions on all sorts 
of subjects, experienced in the management of trees, 
shrubs, flowers and vegetables, and knowing well the 
idiosyncrasies of every member of the family. He has 
grown up on the place since boyhood, and loves every 
nook and corner, every laurel, bay or holly bush, as 
though all were his own. Honesty and integrity go to 
show that his full beard is not the indication of subtilty 
and guile, as some used to think. The schoolmen said 
that Adam was created a handsome young man without 
a beard ; his face was afterward degraded with hair like 
the beasts' for his disobedience ; Eve, being less guilty, 
was permitted to retain her smooth face. This was 
highly complimentary to woman, and shows that at 
times the monks could say something in her favor ; but 
our gardener is by no means like an individual under- 
going punishment. He is talkative, as are most people 
in the country. What is known as English reserve be- 
longs more to the upper than to the lower classes. The 
latter are obstrusively garrulous, and press their opinions 
and their counsel upon the stranger with temerity, and 
even with rudeness. Only ask a question, and you 
open the sluice of a millpond. The gardener will tell 
you all about his work, and as he speaks his eyes will 
sparkle with pride and delight. He knows nothing 
about the busy, stifling city. God first placed man in a 
garden ; England is the garden of Europe, and the finest 
garden of all is that over which he has charge. His 
love for nature is common to all around him. 

If one sought to sum up the leading characteristics 
of the English country-people, one might find it in the 
legendary lore of Robin Hood. That mighty hero of 



LAST GLIMPSES. 39 1 

the merry greenwood has for centuries been their ideal 
and their favorite. He has been made the expression of 
their own aspirations and prejudices. The higher classes 
have made King Arthur, the prince of honor, chivalry 
and gentleness, their pattern and illustration ; the lower 
cling to the son of the yeoman. Robin, we are told, 
robbed only the rich ; the poor he befriended and 
helped. He was the Socialist of his day, adjusting dif- 
ferences, equalizing wealth and carrying out that dream 
of the centuries, that vision of perennial freshness and 
strength, in which every man is the peer of his brother 
and all have enough for their needs. The English are 
not revolutionists, but Robin expressed their thought. 
Ever and anon they have broken out into sturdy rebel- 
lion and sought to free themselves from social bondage. 
Servitude is irksome ; never was it more so than it is 
to-day. Like true men, they are ready to do their duty 
in that state of life in which it has pleased God to place 
them, but also like true men they seek to enter into 
higher states of life which God has as truly placed before 
them. They do not understand contentment to mean 
inaction, subjection or retrogression. Right or wrong, 
they wait for the arrow-shaft that shall speed through 
the Sherwood Forest of modern civilization and force 
the rich to help the poor and make the way easy for 
every man to rise who will. Even as Robin loved the 
freedom of the woodlands, so do they love to cast aside 
the restraints of an artificial life and to revel in the 
liberty which God has ordained for man. 

Another characteristic comes out in Robin Hood. 
He is displayed in the ballads as a religious man : he 
heard three masses every day and was remarkable for 



392 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

his devotion to the Blessed Virgin ; but, notwithstanding 
this manifest piety, he fought vigorously against the cler- 
gy. He would beat and bind every bishop or abbot that 
came within his reach. He would allure a church digni- 
tary into the distant parts of his forest-home, and after 
robbing him tie him to a tree and make him sing Mass 
for the good of Robin's own soul. Some friars were 
made to kneel down and pray for the robbers, and were 
then bound on their horses, with their heads to the tail, 
and sent away. This curious intermingling of reverence 
for religion and of irreverence for the ministers of re- 
ligion still largely prevails. The people who are most 
devout in the discharge of their spiritual duties are 
oftentimes as determined in their opposition to the 
clergy. There are exceptions, but they arise from the 
clergyman having qualities which bring him closer to 
the people than is ordinarily the case — a gentle, sympa- 
thizing spirit, an earnest zeal or great preaching-gifts. 
In a word, the English people dread a priesthood. Their 
race is the only one which has a religion without one, 
nor is there any hope that the effort of the nineteenth 
century to provide them with one will succeed. The 
masses are touched by the hand of a John Wycliffe and 
a John Wesley, by the preaching of Lollard, Reformer 
and Puritan. When such as they speak, then the loud 
response follows, and in the village-folk we see again the 
bold archer who loved religion and hated those who 
called themselves its priests. 

In Robin Hood's devotion to woman is expressed an- 
other English ideal. The days have long since gone by 
when preachers used to recommend husbands to punish, 
and even to chastise, their wives that they might be 



LAST GLIMPSES. 393 

healed of their sins and made obedient. Even the 
custom of selling a wife at auction has passed away. 
She was led by a halter to the market-place and set up 
for the highest bidder. Such sales were considered 
legal, and were common as late as 1797; indeed, in- 
stances much later have been cited. Once in a while 
the newspapers tell of brutes who err against their wives 
and for whom the whipping-post is not too severe, but 
the masses realize that Robin was right and that woman 
was made to be loved and honored. They do not yet 
understand women receiving honors at the university 
and managing large enterprises with ability and suc- 
cess, nor do they like to think of female physicians or 
of female lawyers ; but when they become accustomed 
to these things, they will take them as matters of course. 
Any way, they are struggling on to show in deeds the 
thought of their heart. 

The people love athletic sports and feats of skill, and 
in these their popular hero is made to excel. He was a 
mighty wrestler and an unequalled bowman. The ruder 
sports of earlier days are not common, but every town 
of any size has its cricket club and its bowling-green. 
Every one is interested in them, and the best player at 
quoits, the fleetest runner and the ablest rider receive 
an honor like unto that which former ages yielded to 
the winner in the tournament and to the victor in the 
fight. The universities encourage boat-racing as well 
as scholarship, and the Houses of Parliament adjourn 
over the Derby races. 

One would have to search very closely to find any- 
thing approaching the spirit which Addison describes 
as existing between Sir Roger de Coverley and his de- 



394 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

pendants. Landlords and tenants are still friendly with 
each other, but the commercial rather than the moral 
element binds them together. So with masters and 
servants, mistresses and maids. The old pictures of 
social felicity in which the lord of the house had an 
intimate interest in every member of his family — from 
the heir himself to the boy who waited on the cook or 
kept the birds from the strawberry- plot or cherry tree — 
and received in return a loyalty and an obedience both 
personal and lifelong, have long since passed away. 
There are, indeed, some who still believe that man was 
made to plough and till the land, and that they who can- 
not do that are appointed by Providence to make wag- 
ons, ploughs, spades, mattocks, chairs and tables, to dig 
graves and grow vegetables, to look after foxes, ferrets 
and pheasants, to rear chickens, canary-birds and chil- 
dren, and to tend sheep and oxen, pigs and hounds ; 
but this opinion of the whole duty of man is not gen- 
eral. The growth of a plebeian plutocracy and the 
spread of nineteenth-century Socialism, assisted by the 
press, the railway and the telegraph, have effected great 
and lasting changes. In the outlying districts there is 
still a warm loyalty on the part of the villagers to the 
squire whose family has held the manor from time im- 
memorial, but his sense of responsibility and of duty 
toward them is much stronger and more unselfish than 
is their attachment to him. He will lower his tenants' 
rents, give liberally to improvements, put himself out of 
the way to further their interests, without increasing 
their affection or their devotion. They will scarcely 
think of the ties that bound their forefathers to his — 
of the days when his ancestors struggled for theirs on 



LAST GLIMPSES. 395 

the field of battle or in the social or political arena, and 
theirs served his by following to the war or tilling the 
land. Hodge is as good as his master, or is fast be- 
coming so. He reads more than the Bible and hears 
speak more men than the parson. Even the maid in 
the kitchen resents the old maternal interest which her 
mistress may show in her. She does so much work for 
so much wages, and beyond the bare contract she asks 
for and desires no more. The difference between her 
and her lady is not so much of blood, nor even of beau- 
ty or scholarship, but of money. For better wages or 
an easier place she will leave at a month's notice. The 
gentry and the clergy rebel against this spirit ; but when 
the humblest child of the soil can without fear or favor 
leave the village and go to the ends of the earth, there 
by industry and perseverance to make a new home, per- 
haps to win a larger estate and a greater fortune than 
those of rural magnates in the old land, remonstrance 
goes for naught. Whether the new state of affairs will 
be better than the old, whether people will be happier 
when the present age has done its work, or whether in 
the old semi-feudalism there were not important ele- 
ments of social economy which we are unwisely los- 
ing sight of, are questions into which we may not 
enter. 

The freedom of speech is one of the illustrations of 
the irresistible progress of the times. Theoretically, 
speech has been free in England for ages. If a man 
could find anybody to listen to him, the law allowed 
him to say what he chose, so long as he abstained from 
gross blasphemy or from treason. But in the country 
districts practice differed from the theory; magistrates 



396 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

gave a wide interpretation to the terms defining for- 
bidden subjects. If a man spoke in favor of striking the 
Athanasian Creed out of the Prayer-Book, it was blas- 
phemy ; if of repealing an obnoxious law or of revising 
the constitution, it was treason. In 1866, at the village 
on the Stour spoken of in these pages, there was in the 
employ of a butcher a young man who, thinking he had 
a mission to his townspeople and being filled with Bir- 
mingham politics, rolled into the High street a barrel 
and from its upper end sought to express his views to 
the small company who cared to hear them. What he 
lacked in continuity of thought he made up in vigor of 
utterance. Among other things, he was troubled about 
lay rectors, clerical magistrates, German princes, long 
hours of work, expensive funerals and the limited fran- 
chise. These were strange and startling topics in a 
quiet, sleepy place like Shipston and among a people 
who religiously applied to everything in Church and 
State the latter part of the Gloria Patri. They did not 
know what to make of them, but they listened respect- 
fully. A week later, when the rural radical again posed 
upon his barrel-head, he was taken therefrom by the 
order of the rector, who not only threatened him with 
severe penalties should he persist in making "seditious" 
speeches, but also insisted upon his employer forthwith 
discharging him. The poor fellow soon found every 
face set against him, his character gone, his future dark- 
ened, and he was obliged to seek refuge in the great 
town from whence he obtained his ideas of men and 
manners. Everywhere he was spoken against. The 
good folks who measured cloth and sold sugar, the 
tradespeople and the gentry, avowed him to be an idle, 



LAST GLIMPSES. 397 

dangerous wretch, and even the old men who weeded 
garden-walks and swept the streets, and the old women 
who went out washing and took snuff, shook their heads 
and said he would bring ruin upon himself. This was 
twenty years since. In the mean time, the great agri- 
cultural strike has taken place; Joseph Arch went 
through this same district and taught the farm-laborer 
that it was no sin for him to wish his week's wages in- 
creased from ten shillings to twenty, and to look forward 
to the day when his class should have a vote and be 
represented in Parliament. Agitation became the order 
of the day. Addresses of extreme violence are made 
and no one thinks them out of order, and what is 
stranger still is that things are said not only of the 
government, but also of the queen, which suggest 
rankest disloyalty and not so long since would have 
cost a man his head. Speech is now free, and neither 
clergyman nor magistrate seeks to suppress it. I would 
not imply that dissatisfaction has increased. The people 
are firmly attached to the Crown, and not only are the 
probabilities of the kingdom changing into a republic 
becoming less, but the world looks upon the anomaly 
of a nation both democratical and monarchical and in- 
tensely loyal to both ideals. 

The greatest of all questions in England is that of 
population. This is more apparent in the towns than in 
the country. Take Liverpool, for instance. An hour's 
walk through the streets of that great shipping-port, so 
massive in its buildings and so cosmopolitan in its appear- 
ance, will bring to sight more pauperism and vice than 
will be revealed by years of residence in an American 
city. The number of barefooted children and of ragged 



398 THE HEART OF M ERR IE ENGLAND. 

men and women is appalling. How they keep body 
and soul together is a mystery. Boys sell fairly-printed 
copies of standard works, such as Pickwick Papers, for a 
penny each ; girls hawk matches at a farthing a box. 
Everywhere the eye beholds objects of woe, hungry 
wretches, dissolute rogues and abandoned beggars. 
Such poor souls, the refuse and residuum of high civil- 
ization, are not desirable as emigrants — they take vice 
with them wherever they go — nor does emigration de- 
crease population. Nature is a curious dame and coun- 
teracts with renewed energy the efforts to reduce the 
numbers. It is a sad thought that these worthless 
classes grow far more rapidly than do they who make 
up the brain and the muscle of a nation. What can be 
done with them ? Whatever vice may be elsewhere, 
here it is gross, heavy and bold. Drunkenness abounds, 
depravity is rampant. To disguise the fact is impossible. 
The only hope seems to be in bringing the power of the 
gospel to bear upon the masses. That may at least 
make the people fit to bear the burden of life and to do 
their duty in distant lands where there is room for them 
to live and to work. Much is being done in this di- 
rection; more remains to be done. 

The last paragraph is as a cloud upon the fair, sunny 
picture of England which we have sought to present, 
but from Hampton Court Palace to the slums of Lon- 
don and from Kenilworth to the smoke of Birmingham 
the distance is not great. That the cloud will pass 
away none can doubt. It does not even now retain the 
attention so long as do the brilliant features of English 
life. There are glories far greater than the shadows. 

I have already spoken of the perennial youth of Eng- 



LAST GLIMPSES. 399 

land. Some things grow slowly and live long; they 
are young when their neighbors are old. The primrose 
and the oak both have their day; generations of the 
former pass away before the acorn has developed into a 
sapling. Age is a relative thing, and the fly whose life 
lasts ten minutes becomes old in the time which it takes 
the eagle to wing its way from one mountain-top to 
another or the tortoise to drag itself a few yards along 
the shore-sand. There are as yet no signs of declining 
power or of decaying vitality in England. Institutions 
are created, reformed, abolished, as the times demand. 
Her old men bear the weight of empire with a vigor 
and a strength unequalled ; her young men are as hope- 
ful as though millenniums were yet in store for their 
country. Nobody thinks of decay in England ; nobody 
there thinks of the fading of splendor or the weakening 
of force. The people set to work to deal with legisla- 
tive questions with all the enthusiasm of a nation just 
beginning to shape its constitution. They are not try- 
ing to patch up a weatherbeaten, worn-out thing, stick- 
ing a bit of straw on the roof to keep the rain out till 
the old house falls down ; they do not think about 
houses the work and shelter of a generation : they deal 
with rocks moss-grown and heavy, the formation of 
ages, and they quarry, shape and build, mould the mas- 
sive stone into that which neither wind can overthrow 
nor rain wash away, set it against ocean's wave and 
war's artillery, and thus work, not for an age, but for all 
time. 

The religion of England is another glory. I need 
not speak of its nature ; all men know the vitality and 
the purity of the Christianity which has long reigned 

26 



400 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

there. It is Protestant, and Protestant it will remain till 
the end of time. In the great moral and spiritual re- 
forms of the age the Church is doing her part, wrestling 
with the ignorance, irreligion and shame of the masses 
in the great cities, striving to stay the deadly flood of 
intemperance which at one time threatened to destroy all 
things and is still mighty for evil, and seeking in every 
way to better the lot of the people and to guide them to 
an inheritance beyond the flood of time and of change. 
Moreover, the best of England's sons are going forth to 
bear the tidings of a redeeming Lord to the ends of the 
earth. Nations that have long sat in darkness are be- 
ginning to see the great light ; the cross is uplifted in 
the cities of China and in the forest-wilds of Africa; 
martyr-blood has watered the seed of truth sown ; the 
same hymns and the same prayers which are offered up 
to the Almighty amid the ancient glories of a Westmin- 
ster are sung and said in tens of thousands of humbler 
temples scattered on distant shores. And though other 
nations are doing good work for Christ, yet it seems 
given to men of Anglo-Saxon race to lead the way and 
to be the first in the army of spiritual conquest and oc- 
cupation. It was through the people of Canaan that all 
the nations of the earth were blessed ; it is through us 
to-day that those blessings are increased. The glory 
and the life of England's future will be long and great 
even as she is faithful to her trust and true to her God. 
Nor must the colonies be forgotten. England has 
fringed the sea with her settlements and developed na- 
tions in distant parts of the earth. Take the map of the 
world and see how the red lines of her realm rest in 
every quarter of the globe, on every continent and in 



LAST GLIMPSES. 4OI 

every sea. Venice built a city on the flood ; England 
has created an empire on the mighty main. Think of 
vast Australia, and the beautiful islands of New Zealand ; 
of golden India, and the rich Africa of the South ; of 
myriad isles which dot the tide-stirred waters ; and of 
wide, ocean-bounded and vigorous Canada. These 
communities have all the same language, institutions, 
beliefs and books. They are peopled by the descendants 
of the men who ages back ploughed the plains and sub- 
dued the mountains of Great Britain. The manners 
and the customs which prevail in England prevail in 
these other lands. As children of the one mother they 
are bound by the indissoluble ties of race. What may 
be their future political connection I cannot say ; only 
this I know — that there are stronger bonds of union 
than mere legislative acts. Each may be independent so 
far as parliaments are concerned, and yet be one in re- 
ligion, sentiment, literature, tongue, habits, history and 
aim. These were found to hold the Greek colonies of 
three thousand years ago loyal to their mother-land; 
they will be found to be the strength of a nobler em- 
pire than scholars can devise or statesmen create. A 
whiff of opinion can sever mere political ties ; no rev- 
olution, be it ever so violent or wide-reaching, can pos- 
sibly change the language taught by the fathers. It was 
once a prevailing idea that the Christian Church could 
not be held together unless every member of it believed 
the same doctrines and obeyed the same supreme juris- 
diction ; we have lived to see that Christianity suffers 
nothing from having burst asunder the bands of cast- 
iron organization. This very century, which is by some 
so severely condemned for its denominationalism, has 



402 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

been equalled by no age in its devotion to Christ and to 
the propagation of the faith. Possibly the like truth 
may be reached in the social life. At any rate, even in 
the streets of London or in the meadows of Warwick- 
shire the thoughts go out to the greater Englands be- 
yond the seas. There is the vision of this vast continent 
— its happy homes, its wide farmlands, its vast cities, 
busy towns and flourishing villages, its comparative free- 
dom from the pauperism of the Old World, its schools 
and colleges, its advantages of success to all who are 
sober, industrious and plodding, — a picture of peace and 
plenty, of joy and hope. England is as a sacred shrine 
around which men of her race are building the walls of 
a noble minster. Nations that shall love her shall be 
her strength and her glory. Nations that shall speak 
her tongue shall sing the praises of her past, delight 
themselves in her history and show in their own life the 
beauty and the power of inherited virtues and trans- 
mitted graces. Shakespeare shall live beside the St. 
Lawrence, the Hudson and the Murray, as well as on 
the Avon and the Thames ; the same Scriptures shall be 
read in the valleys of the great mountains of the West 
as in the glens and on the plains of God-fearing Britain. 
Transplanting does not injure the Anglo-Saxon. The 
dahlia is a native of tropical America ; there it rears its 
yellow disk and its dull scarlet rays to the sun : in our 
Northern gardens it has developed into a flower of 
brighter hue and deeper color. Change of clime has 
done much for it, and even here its cuttings are found to 
flourish best in a soil different from that in which grows 
the parent-plant. So the Anglo-Saxon has not suffered 
by passing from his European home to America or to 



LAST GLIMPSES. 



403 



Australia. He has taken with him the spirit, the cour- 
age and the devotion of his race ; he has developed them 
till he has given to the land of his adoption a greater 
lustre and a stronger life than belong to the land of his 
birth ; he has made ancient virtues grow as lovely and 
as true as ever, whether in homes beneath the burning 
suns of the South or on the borders of the eternal ice- 
bound North. 

I lay down my pen and turn my thoughts away from 
the social problems, the physical beauties, the delightful 
associations and the pleasant memories of the old coun- 
try. The work is done, the story is told ; if the reader 
is not satisfied, be sure the fault lies in the author, and 
not in the subject. One picture only remains — not that 
of the reader casting aside as a thing of little value a 
book written both to please and to instruct — which he 
may do or not at his pleasure — but that of a summer 
eventide beside the flowing Stour. The willows deepen 
the shadows on the water; the nightingale sings the 
song of love in the apple trees close by ; from far away 
comes the murmuring melody of pealing bells, and the 
setting sun sends the streams of golden light through 
the elms, over the fields and past the hoary church- 
tower. There are rowers on the river, and the soft 
winds bear hither and thither the aroma of gardens and 
orchards and the chorus of young men and young 
maidens. Quiet, gentle, joyful peace ! The great world 
is far away, and as the twilight comes on and the glow 
of the west fades into night-shadows the strange sweet- 
ness of rural life makes itself felt, and the soul passes 
into the mystical borderland between earth and heaven, 



404 THE HEART OF MERRIE ENGLAND. 

far away from turmoil and from tumult into the restful- 
ness of the garden of delights. The days gone by and 
the days to come mingle with the day that now is: 
time seems to have died and misery and sin to have 
gone for ever ; and in the glory of the dying eventide 
I pluck a folded daisy from the grass and I lay it beside 
a pure red rose, emblem of homely virtues and lovely 
graces twined together in eternal oneness, even as Na- 
ture and History have made one beautiful realm, and a 
gentle spirit by my side whispers, 

" Truth and love, restfulness and peace — the Heart of 
Merrie England !" 



THE END. 



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